Courtship
by ICanStopAnytime
Summary: Sayid makes an unsettling discovery and runs to Hurley for the manifest. After the survivors are rescued, Sayid continues his search for Nadia and Claire develops an unexpected relationship with Sawyer.
1. Chapter 1: Discovery

**Chapter One: Discovery**

"**Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,  
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,  
you must do a little work."**

– **_Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

It had been three months since Shannon's death. Sayid was sleeping better now, but still he awoke at least once each night bathed in sweat, with the traces of the same nightmare echoing in his brain. Either it was filled with scattered scenes, or he could not recall the connection, but always he saw Nadia begging him, "Come with me," and always he saw Shannon crying, "You'll just leave me." He saw himself saying, "I cannot. I do not have your courage," and he saw himself vowing, "I love you. I will never leave you." And then he heard the screeching of a truck's tires as it pulled away, and he heard the thud of Shannon's body as it slumped to the soaked earth.

In the day, when the sorrow and guilt would rear their hoary heads, he would throw himself into the task at hand; work was a kind of salve for him, but he did not labor merely to mask the pain. He worked to help others because it was the right thing to do. Today he was learning to fish. The boar had been exhausted, and Jin alone could not catch enough to feed the survivors. The Korean was showing him how to wait patiently for his prey and how to gauge just the right moment to strike.

As he stood poised, knee-deep in the ocean, Sayid saw a silver glint from the corner of his eye. "Suitcase!" came Jin's heavily accented English, and the Korean snatched up the small floating object, hurrying it to shore. Sayid followed quickly after him. He took out his knife to jimmy the lock.

There was very little inside. It must have been an overnight bag. Jin looked questioningly at the strange clothing and then looked to Sayid. "It is a burka," Sayid explained. The only other contents were some women's undergarments, a few toiletries, and an English Koran.

Sayid took hold of the Koran and closed the suitcase. Without a word to Jin, he began to run along the shore. When he had found Hurley, he was out of breath, but he managed to gasp out, "The manifest. Do you still have it?"

"The manifest?"

"The manifest!" Sayid demanded. "I must see it now!"

"All right, All right, hold your horses, dude." Hurley disappeared and returned with the list.

Sayid scoured the names, flipping through the pages until he reached the J's. He ran his finger down the list. He was looking for one name--Noor Abed Jazeem.

It was not there.

Of course it was not there. Why would he even have thought such a thing? Was he so desperate as that? Nadia was in California. She would have had no reason to be on that plane, and what was more, she would not have been carrying an English Koran, but an Arabic one. He cursed himself for his weakness, and he tossed the manifest angrily back to Hurley.

-----

"So, hey dude, what did you want to see the manifest for anyway?"

Sayid, cleaning the day's catch, looked up at Hurley. "We found a suitcase. I was curious to know to whom it may have belonged."

"Curious? 'Cause, you didn't seem, you know, _curious_. You seemed kind of frantic."

Sayid did not respond but continued scaling the fish with his knife.

"Like, it was a Muslim's suitcase, right?"

"Yes," replied Sayid.

Hurley pulled out the manifest. "Because, like, I didn't see any Arabic sounding names on this except yours."

"Not all Muslims are Arabs, Hurley. For all we know her last name could be Smith."

"But I don't remember anyone wearing a burka, dude."

"Well, perhaps she only wore it to religious services, or when her husband was around to insist upon it."

"Or, like, maybe she was in the CIA or something and she was just posing as a Muslim."

Sayid shook his head and chuckled. "Or, like, dude, maybe she just kept it to wear to bars to pick up swarthy and virile Arabic men."

Hurley dropped the manifest to his side and looked at Sayid through squinting eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

Sayid let out a great, deep laugh. He hadn't laughed like that since Shannon had died. It felt good.

"Hey," said Hurley, staring at the list. "There is a Smith on here. Noor Jazeem Smith. I guess that first part could be Arabic, huh?"

"What? Where?" Sayid stood and grabbed the list.

"Yeah," Hurley said. "But you see it's not checked there. That means she never boarded the plane. But maybe her luggage got on, huh?"

"It does not make sense," said Sayid, shaking the list. "It does not make sense. I was coming to her in L.A. I was coming to her."

"Coming to who?"

"Unless…unless she was in Australia for some reason, and she was planning to take that flight home to California, and the CIA did not even know she was there. Why would they have cared, anyway? They were just using her to get to me."

"Dude, _what _are you talking about?"

He pointed to the name. "This means she did not board, yes? This means she never got on the plane."

"No," Hurley said, shaking his head, "she never got on that plane. Now are you going to tell me what you're talking about?"

"It is nothing. It is nothing," said Sayid, handing him the list. "I need to get these fish to Jin for cooking." He nodded to the big man. "Hurley," he said politely and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2: Rescue

**Chapter Two: Rescue**

**This that is tormented and very tired, **

**tortured with restraints like a madman, **

**this heart. **

**Still you keep breaking the shell **

**to get the taste of its kernel!**

**_- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

As Sayid delivered the fish to Jin he felt a strange medley of emotions: hope, disappointment, relief, uncertainty. Was it really possible that Nadia could have planned to board that plane? Was the name just a coincidence? And if she had been about to board that plane…why Smith?

He had years ago intellectually accepted the idea that she might have settled down, married, and had children. But accepting an idea intellectually is not the same as being hit hard in the gut with something like evidence. And a Smith? Probably an American? It would explain why she was in Irvine, California, working as a lab technician. It did not seem like a glorious career path…not the kind of thing a woman of her stature and family's wealth would embrace. But she had probably been stripped of that wealth and influence when she had been forced to flee Iraq. And the mediocrity would be easier to endure if she had someone to come home to…

As he walked along the shore, he could not help but think of Nadia begging him, "Come with me!" And he could not help but think again that he had abandoned her. But what could he have done? He could not at that time bring himself to desert. They would have slaughtered his mother and his little sisters. And then he would have had to live with that guilt too. He had persisted in a wrong to avoid a wrong. The prophet Isa bin Maryam had said, "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple." Is that what he had meant?

Prophets asked too much.

-----

Later that night, Sayid lit the signal fire again, not because he hoped any longer for rescue, but because it had become a habit, and routine was a comfort in this fragile world. Tonight, a group had gathered together around the flames. It had been like that for many nights, though the composition always differed: it seemed people drifted back and forth from the caves to the beach, at night joining together in each place before some common fire, sharing in a long draught of human fellowship, the one life raft on this sinking island.

Charlie strummed his guitar, and Locke sat sharpening a knife. Rose and Bernard leaned against one another and drifted into the music. Sawyer sat down between Claire and Kate and offered the young mother a piece of fruit. Sayid lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, plodding his way more deeply into the recently discovered Koran, page by page.

When he turned the next page, he found wedged near the spine a wallet-sized photograph, and he pulled it out. He stared in disbelief at the familiar face before him, arrayed in bridal robes, and he looked at the tall Caucasian figure who stood next to her, sliding a ring upon her finger. He was dressed as an American officer, and he was beaming at his bride. Sayid flipped the photograph over, and immediately he recognized Nadia's handwriting. There was a date—two years after he had helped her to escape—and the words, "Allah takes with one hand and gives with the other." That was all.

He flipped rapidly through the pages of the book, looking for any other place where they were too thick, where there might be a photograph lodged between the pages. And he found another. The infant pictured there was light skinned, and his flesh possessed only a hint of brown. But he had Nadia's eyes. On the back of this was written, in another handwriting, "Sayid Jazeem Smith," and under that a date three years after he had last seen Nadia. In tiny scrawl, so that it could fit in the small area left for writing, a hand—no doubt her husband's--had written, "Let my quiver be so filled, Allah." So Mr. Smith was a Muslim after all. But if Nadia had been settled and married in the United States for the past five years, why had she been so hard to find? What had he been chasing from country to country? Misinformation, hints and glimmers of a woman who had long ago changed her name and begun her life anew.

Sayid collected the photographs together and placed them in the back of the Koran, near the spine. So this had been her husband's book, and she had taken it with her to Australia. Unknown to the CIA, she must have been about to board his very plane, but for some reason she had not. This one overnight bag had washed up on the shore, but she was safe…somewhere with someone she loved.

Sayid closed the Koran and rose slowly from the sand. He began to walk away from the group. He felt a dullness in his spirit, like the beginning of an ache, but he would not let if form. He would not let himself feel at all. He had moved on, hadn't he? He had loved again. His breathing grew heavy, too heavy for the minor exertion he was making to walk back up the sandy shore towards…towards where? The jungle? The caves? The tent? The past? The future? The present? He was afraid his forced indifference was about to give way to some other overpowering sensation when he heard the sound of a propeller plane flying overhead, and then he heard the excited shouts erupting from the shore.

------

Three weeks passed from the time the propeller plane landed until the time the rest of the survivors were rescued. Only three could fit on the initial plane, and the men had all insisted that Claire and her baby have the first seat. For the other two seats, the women had drawn lots, all except Kate, who was in no hurry to return to face her past.

Three weeks later, a jet plane finally returned to the island, which had been difficult to locate again. With the crew came a handful of reporters. Sayid would not speak to them. He sat, withdrawn, continually removing those photos from the Koran and looking at the address the CIA had given him.

Sayid wondered if he should go to see Nadia after all. Seven years…seven years of searching. How could he just walk away? But if she were settled and happy, what good would it do her to see a specter rise up from the past? His presence would only dredge up old horrors. She had found peace. He should let her be.

And yet he could not. He had to see her in the flesh one last time. He had to ask for her forgiveness. After much soul searching and many solitary walks, he had laid claim to peace…a kind of peace…not as the world regards peace, not freedom from pain and suffering, but the peace that only Allah can give: deliverance from the bondage of his past sins and the assurance that, no matter what befell him, he would press on; he would find meaning and purpose in his life.

But there was one thing left. He had to know that Nadia forgave him too.


	3. Chapter 3: Invitation

**Chapter Three: Invitation**

**There was a dawn I remember **

**when my soul heard something from your soul. **

**I drank water from your spring **

**and felt the current take me.**

**_- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

Sayid pulled his rented car alongside the curb in the quiet Irvine, California suburb. He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand and looked up at the numbers affixed to the post of the carport. It was hard to imagine Nadia living here, after all she had been through, after all she had endured, after all of her heroic intentions. It was ordinary: the well manicured lawns, the houses stamped out as if by a cookie cutter, the mid-sized cars parked in driveways, the uniform trashcans resting at the curbs. It was all so common, and she was so uncommon.

He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. Why should it surprise him, after all? She was a flesh and blood creature. Why should she not desire all the human comforts and the earthbound peace that unpretentious conformity can bring? Why not a simple home, a husband, children, a nine to five job, a quiet place to rest one's feet when the sun set into the horizon? Had he had not wanted those things too?

If it was hard for him to imagine her living here, it must be because it was hard for him to imagine her at all. He could see only the image he had drawn of her, the idol he had carved and sanded year by year. And now he was to see her for real, face to face, and he thought perhaps all those infant fantasies might fade away, and he could look into her eyes and kiss her hand, and say hello to her husband and her children, and he would feel no trace of pain.

He got out of the car and walked slowly to the door. He had barely knocked when the knob began to turn, repeatedly, as though someone were struggling to open it from inside. Finally the door was drawn open, and Sayid saw before him a young child, not more than five. He did not have to look long to know the boy was Nadia's.

And then a woman's soft voice came cascading down the stairs, a voice he had not been able to recall in his mind, but which he now recognized instantly. "Sigh, I told you not to open the door to strangers. Who--" She stopped suddenly halfway down the stairs. She had been in the process of wrapping her head scarf, and her hair still hung low down to her shoulders. "Sayid!"

The child turned with a look of fright. "I'm sorry, mama."

His mother took the last few steps quickly. She had let the scarf fall upon the stairs, and she grasped the door. "Sayid Jarrah."

"Yes," he said simply. He did not know what else to say.

"Sigh, sweetie, go upstairs and wash your face and hands and pack your bookbag. We leave for school in ten minutes."

The young child obeyed resignedly.

"He thought I was angry with him," she explained. "It is the only time I use his full name—Sayid. He did not know I was speaking to you. Everyone just calls him Sigh."

Sayid stood wordlessly outside the door, not sure how to behave or respond.

"Will you come in?" she asked, and he entered into her foyer.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" He followed her through the living room, which opened into a kitchen. He glanced at the framed photos on the mantle. Among them were the same wedding and baby photos he had found in the Koran.

"Yes, please."

She seemed very nervous as she poured him a cup and handed it to him. At last she turned to face him. He sipped quietly from the mug and waited for her to speak. "And how are you, Sayid? It has been…what, eight years?"

_Yes_, he thought; he had searched for her for seven, and he had been on the island for almost one. "A long time," he said as he glanced around the kitchen. "You seem settled. How did you meet your husband?"

"After you helped me to escape, I stayed in hiding for months, but I was picked up by the Republican Guard again. I was about to be executed when he saved me—my husband. I don't even know what he was doing there. The war was over. At the time, he was in the special forces, and he was on some kind of secret mission; he never told me what it was. I don't know if he found what he was looking for, but he found me. He liberated me. An American soldier."

"Yes, I saw. In the photographs."

"It is hard not to fall in love with a man who saves your life." Before he could judge from her face how she had meant the words, she turned abruptly and began to fill her own coffee cup.

He supposed it did not matter if her words had held some double meaning. It was too late for him. He put down his cup and pulled the Koran from a satchel at his side. "I think this belongs to your husband."

She shook her head in disbelief as she picked up the book. "How? How did you find this?"

"What were you doing in Australia?"

"My sister lives there," Nadia said. "The only one who could escape. The rest of my family is dead."

"Mine too," he said. "Except for one sister. She lives in France with her husband."

"I am sorry, Sayid."

"As am I for you."

"But you still have not told me how you got this book."

He fingered the handle of his coffee cup. "I was on the plane from Australia to L.A., the one you were supposed to board. Your luggage was on it. You were not."

"I got a call on my cell phone at the last minute. My brother-in-law had been hit by a car. I went back."

"Did he survive?"

"Yes, he is fine now."

"The plane crashed," Sayid said.

"I heard. I had no idea…no idea you were on it. I read about it, about how the survivors were stranded on an uncharted island and just rescued a few weeks ago. You were on that island?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing in Australia?" she asked.

"It is a long story. But I was coming to L.A. to find you. I have been looking for you, Nadia, for a very long time." He tried to catch her eye, but she turned again to refill her cup, even though it was still two thirds full.

When she turned back, she looked almost sad. "A lot changes in eight years, Sayid."

"Yes," he said, "and I have changed. Nadia, I did not come here to disrupt your peace, or to force you to recall memories of unhappier times. I just…I just wanted you to know that you began a work in me. I have repented of the evil I have done, and I have begun my life anew. I am renewed—all because you first hoped in me when I was lost. I came…I came to thank you, Nadia, and to ask for your forgiveness."

She was staring into the black swirls of her cup, but he could tell her eyes were moist. "I forgave you a long time ago, Sayid. I had hoped you understood that."

"Still, I need to hear it from your lips."

Now she looked up at him, and in that quiet determination was the Nadia he had known in those torture chambers. She had changed, and yet she had not changed. She was beautiful in her fierceness. "I forgive you, Sayid. I forgive you."

He swallowed and looked away, glanced into a corner of the room. The descent of little Sigh down the stairs spared him from any further conversation on that topic.

"I have to go, Sayid," she said gently. "I have to take my son to school now, and then I need to get to work."

"I understand." He nodded.

"Will you…will you join us for dinner Sunday night? 6:30?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I would very much like that."

"Good. Sigh, put on your shoes now!" She hastened to the stairs and grabbed her scarf and wound it about her head.

He followed them out the door, but he sat in the car until they had driven off. And then he gripped the steering wheel on either side and lay his head down hard upon it. He let out a trembling sigh. He had come to ask forgiveness and to offer gratitude. That was all. He had let go of his love for her on that island. He had told himself as much. He had moved on.

Why then was his pulse racing? Why did his heart beat so painfully in his chest? He pushed his head back against the headrest and jerked the keys in the ignition, until the engine purred. He wished he had not accepted her invitation. It was enough that she had forgiven him. He should have packed up and left Irvine that very afternoon. But now he would have to sit at her table, across from the man she loved, the man who alone had the privilege of holding her each night, and Sayid would have to feign indifference as he talked of pointless things.

He wished her happiness; truly he did. He simply did not wish to witness it.He


	4. Chapter 4: Revelation

**Chapter Four: Revelation**

"**Do you know what a faithful love is like? **

**You're crying. You say you've burned yourself. **

**But can you think of anyone who is not hazy with smoke?"**

**_Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

Sayid stood outside Nadia's door holding a small, green potted plant. He felt ridiculous. He had thought a lot about what he should bring. He couldn't bring flowers: her husband might interpret that the wrong way. He couldn't bring wine, obviously. But he thought he shouldn't show up empty handed either.

He rang the doorbell with one hand and saw the frenetically twisting nob. Sigh opened the door.

"Hello," he said to the boy. "I am Sayid."

From behind the child came her rich voice, "But you will call him Mr. Jarrah, Sigh."

He handed her the plant and she took it with a questioning smile. He shrugged.

"Would you like to see my race cars, Mr. Jarrah?"

"I would be delighted to see your race cars."

Nadia gave him a sympathetic smile and headed toward the kitchen. Sigh led him to the living room floor, where his race cars were immaculately arrayed in rows, sorted by size and color. Sayid sat down on the floor with the boy and prepared to listen to the important story of each car. After a time he excused himself and walked toward the kitchen. He noticed that the table, just to the right of the kitchen, was set with only three places. "Is your son not joining us for dinner?" Sayid asked Nadia, who was busy arranging food in serving dishes.

"Oh, yes, he is," she said. "A place is set for him."

Sayid glanced back at the table. "There are only three places."

She looked over at him as though she did not understand his reasoning. "Yes," she said slowly, "Yes, and there are three of us."

"I…I assumed your husband would be dinning with us," Sayid said. "If he was called away to work, I can come another evening. It would not be appropriate for me--"

"Sayid, my husband died two years ago in a training accident. I'm sorry. I thought you knew. You seemed to know so much about me. You knew where I lived. And you had his Koran."

"I…I did not…" Sayid felt suddenly nervous. He had come prepared to conduct himself well in the presence of her husband, to bear up under the sight of their happiness. He had not come prepared to share a dinner alone with her and her son.

"How _did_ you find me, Sayid?"

He came and leaned on the counter, across from her. "The CIA gave me the information. They were using you to get me to help them with something." He would say no more. He would not say he had betrayed a friend so that the CIA would not harass her. Those old sins were buried now. "What I don't understand," he said, "is how I could not find you myself, if you were here all along."

"We moved a lot," said Nadia, "when Bashar—that was my husband's name—was in the Army. That may be why."

"Bashar? Your husband was raised Muslim? He was not a convert?"

"No. His parents were. I did not settle in Irvine until after he died. I had to work then. When he was alive, I volunteered. I helped organize efforts to relieve the suffering of our people in Iraq. I devoted myself to it full time. But when he died, I had to get a job. And I wanted a stable home for Sigh."

"You are a lab technician."

"Did the CIA tell you that too?"

"Yes."

"Why are they so interested in me? Because of my past ties? Because of my charity work with organizations in Iraq?"

"That, I suppose, and because they wanted to use me. They know you are not a terrorist. But they probably keep an eye on you."

"You must tell me the whole story some day." She turned to respond to a buzzer and pulled their meal from the oven. After they had prayed and eaten their dinner, Sigh asked to be excused to watch a video, and he disappeared into the living room. Sayid and Nadia sat at the kitchen table, finishing their pie and drinking coffee.

"So," Nadia asked, looking at her cup instead of him, "Did you ever marry, Sayid?"

"Yes," he said. "On the island." It was not precisely true, but he did not know how else to describe his relationship with Shannon. He had made love to her. To Nadia, he suspected, such an intimate act could not mean less than marriage.

"Where is she now?"

"Dead. She died on the island."

"I am sorry, Sayid. I know what it is like."

"I did not know her very long, and yet I felt the loss keenly. You were married—what—over three years?"

"Yes," she answered.

"It must be very hard indeed."

"It was. But I have healed. Allah sustains."

"He does."

She lowered her coffee cup and pushed her plate to the side. "You sound assured of that, Sayid. Your family was never religious like mine."

"No. But as I told you, I have changed in many ways."

"I think you have," she said quietly. "Friday afternoon, on my lunch break, I went to the library and looked up all the news stories about that plane crash. I read how you helped lead the survivors, how you risked your life for them, how you built and labored for them. I always knew, Sayid, that you could be such a man."

She had not read the worse things he had done. That was well. She had changed him, but not enough. At length, however, the island had changed him too. But it was her hope that had ignited the first spark. "Even when I did not know it," he said. And for that I will always be indebted to you."

"You owe me nothing, Sayid."

A quiet fell between them. Nadia rose to refill her cup of coffee, and he stood and walked behind her. Her back to him, he drew near and spoke just behind her ear, very softly. "Nadia, I must know if there is hope for me."

She did not turn. "What do you mean, Sayid? I thought you had found peace."

"I have. I mean, I need to know if there is a hope…a hope that you might grow to love me."

She placed both hands on the counter, bracing herself. "Sayid, I can tell that you have changed, but we do not know one another." She turned and faced him. He stepped back a pace to give her room. "What if you discover that I am not like the image you have created in your mind? What if you find that I, too, am deeply flawed?"

"Then I will learn to love your flaws."

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms across her body. "So many years have passed, Sayid. And yet you ask me, the second time I see you in eight years, you ask me if I can love you."

He looked down. He did not want her to see the disappointment in his face, the hint of anger. He had been a fool. He was still clinging to a dream. After all this time, he had not let go. And yet he had. He did not want a fantasy anymore. He wanted this very real woman who stood in front of him: this widow, this mother, this simple lab technician. "I understand," he murmured. "I understand. I will go now. I am sorry to have disturbed you."

When he turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed his hand. A tiny touch, and yet it electrified him. "Sayid, I do not mean I want you to leave. I mean that we should take the time to get to know one another. We should spend time together. We should…_date_." The western word sounded strange upon her tongue. She must have thought so too, for she said it almost with distaste.

"You want to _date_ me?"

"Yes. If you wish it."

"Nadia, I would much rather court you."

She squeezed his hand and then let go of it. She returned to the table, and he sat in the chair next to her. "I never did like this American idea of dating," she said. "The advantage is entirely on the man's side. It is as if he were test driving a car, and if he decides it does not suit him, he moves onto the next dealer. Courtship, however, is another matter entirely."

"Yes," replied Sayid. "Then the advantage is entirely on _your_ side. For if I court you, it means I have already determined to win you, and the power of refusal or acceptance is wholly in your hands."

She laughed. "Are you sure you want to court me then, Sayid? Are you sure you want to give me that power?"

"You have that power Nadia, whether I wish to grant it or not. I do not want to _date_ you. I want to learn to know and love you as you are, and I want to convince you that I am worthy of your love. I am thirty-six years old. I don't have time for these American games."

"Very well then," she said, and smiled warmly. He had not seen her smile like that since they were children. He was glad to know that he could be the cause of such a smile. "You may court me, Sayid."


	5. Chapter 5: Love Comes With a Knife

**Chapter Five: Love Comes With a Knife**

"_**Love comes with a knife, not some shy question, **_

**_and not with fears for its reputation!" _**

**_- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

Sayid's first task was to begin looking for a job. The CIA had promised to help him obtain a temporary work visa, but he had thought he would see Nadia once and then walk out of her life forever. Matters had, however, happily changed. If he were to court Nadia, he would need more than a few week's worth of walking around money. And he wanted to be able to offer her security.

He had thought the interview process would be difficult and painful. Here he was, an ex-Iraqi looking for a job in the nation that had been his enemy in a time of war. But to his surprise, no one he encountered commented on his ethnicity, and few seemed to care about it. They were impressed by his skills and by his mastery of the English language, which apparently exceeded that of many of their native born employees. By the end of the week, he had three job offers, each more lucrative than the last. The most prestigious offer came from a firm in L.A., but he settled instead for a lower paying job with a telecommunication company in Irvine. He wished to be near Nadia, and after spending almost a year in a civilization of less than one hundred people, he was a little overwhelmed by the city. He was surprised by the amount of money a man with his skills could earn in this country.

This time, when he arrived at Nadia's house, he had flowers. She invited him in to place them in a vase before they left again. Sigh had been left in the care of a neighbor, and they would have the evening to themselves. As he drove her to the restaurant where they would dine, he told her about his new job.

"It is hard to imagine you as a businessman, Sayid."

"Well, I am not exactly a businessman. I am something of an engineer. But why would it be difficult to imagine me as a businessman?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It was hard to imagine myself as a lab technician. Life here in America is routine. But it is comforting. I like it. I only wish I could do more. I used to do a great deal for charity. But I have a mortgage now and a child. I must admit my responsibilities and honor them."

"I am sure you do. You always did. You have even done things for which you had no obligation." He was thinking of the undeserved concern she had shown him in Iraq.

"How long do you think you will be able to stay in America?" she asked.

"My work visa is good for only twelve months," he said. "But next week I meet with an immigration lawyer, and I hope to be able to find a way to settle more permanently."

"You are optimistic." She was looking out the window, so he could not see her expression, but she sounded bemused.

"Nadia, I did not mean to imply…I make absolutely no assumptions about our future. I only prepare for possibilities."

When she turned to him she laughed: not that charming, tinkling laugh of the girl in the schoolyard, but the warm laugh of a woman who has suffered and grown and who wishes to dispense with all that is not genuine.

"Your hair has grown," she said, with a teasing smile. "I think I liked it better shorter."

He repaid her banter. "Or perhaps it is only that you liked me younger."

"No," she replied, "you have aged very well indeed, Sayid. You always were a handsome man, but now, especially…" She turned to look out the window again.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he drove. She was modestly arrayed; only her hands and face were revealed to him, but it was enough to enable him to comprehend her beauty. "You weren't wearing a hijab in the photo the C.I.A. gave me."

"When I came to America, I put aside those customs. It felt liberating to be free of all that. But when Bashar died…I don't know. I found comfort in reclaiming old ways."

"Do you ever receive strange looks, here in America, when you dress traditionally?"

"Less often than you might think. You will certainly encounter rude people here, Sayid, from time to time, but on the whole, I have no cause to complain. And I am not sensitive."

"No indeed," he said. "You are like steel."

"That is not a very flattering comparison for a lady, Sayid."

"That depends on what you find flattering. Should I admire you for your weakness or your strength?"

She smiled. "Perhaps you will find that there is velvet beneath this steel."

"Perhaps," he half-whispered in reply, "if you allow me."

Over dinner, they shared the stories of their past lives. Sayid learned enough about her late husband to respect him, and he was gratified to learn that it had been Bashar's idea to name their son after Sayid. When Bashar learned from Nadia how Sayid had saved her life at great risk to his own, he thought it fit to honor the man. It touched Sayid that a man who should have considered himself his enemy could pay him such a tribute.

Nadia, for her part, asked a great many questions about Shannon, and he answered as well as he could. "You were not really married to her, were you, Sayid?"

"No," he admitted.

"Then why did you tell me that you were?"

"Because…because I _behaved_ as if I were, and I thought if you knew…" He toyed with the food on his plate and did not end his sentence.

"You thought I would not respect you."

"Yes."

"Sayid, men who were at one time your compatriots tortured me. They poured acid on my chest. They burnt holes in my flesh with cigarettes."

"Nadia--"

"And you think I could not forgive you if I knew that, stranded on an island with a beautiful woman, you made love to her? I may have been raised conservatively, but I am certainly not naïve."

He swallowed the food that seemed to stick in his throat and took a long drought of water. The courtship was not proceeding swimmingly. What did he say to her now?

"Sayid, you are a very attractive man, and you are thirty-six. I did not expect to find you a virgin. I only ask this because I want two things from you. First, your assurance that you will not lie to me again."

"You have it."

"Second, that you understand and respect the fact that I _am_, in some regards, traditional. There is very little I can allow outside of marriage."

"Of course, Nadia, I never dreamed--"

"I just thought it easier to make these things plain. You knew me as a rebel in Iraq; perhaps you thought that made me a modern woman. And there it did. But here, in America, I am a different kind of rebel, because I honor values that have fallen out of fashion."

"Understood." After he moved his food around on his plate a little, he ventured a hesitant glance at her. "I am not doing very well, am I?" he asked.

She smiled. "You are doing just fine, Sayid. You bear up well in the face of my bluntness. You could find offense. Many lesser men would."

"There is an old tradition," he replied, now at ease, "that Muhammed once said something like, _A wise man will listen to and be led by a woman. An ignorant man will not._"

"Do you believe he really said that?"

"I do not know, but someone did, and there is truth in it. I listened to you, Nadia, many years ago when you deigned to speak to me even in that dark pit where I had thrown you. I listened, but it was awhile before I heard. I wish I had come with you."

"Do you? We have both loved others, and we have both grown because of it. Allah takes with one hand and gives with the other."

"That is what you wrote on the back of the photo in the Koran."

Nadia lifted her glass and gazed at him over the rim. "And I believe it. Look at you here now." After she had taken a sip, she asked, "Will you take me for a walk along the beach, after dinner?"

"There is nothing, Nadia, that would give me more pleasure than walking alone with you, but if I never set foot on another beach again, I will be content."


	6. Chapter 6: Modesty

**Chapter Six: Modesty**

"**I would love to kiss you.**

_**The price of kissing is your life.**_

**Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,**

**_What a bargain, let's buy it!_"**

**_-- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

They went to a park instead. And they returned for these intimate walks the next week and the next. They walked always side by side, not touching, speaking of their childhoods in Iraq and their lives since they had fled the country. They left behind that darker time when she had been a part of the resistance and Sayid had been in the Republican Guard.

Tonight, they climbed a high hill and leaned against a tree. Their arms brushed together as they stood beside one another. "It is the only place I know of where you can see the stars clearly through the smog," Nadia said softly.

Sayid looked down at her and took her hand. She laced her fingers between his own. "Remember when you were in solitary and I tried to kiss you?" he asked.

She only nodded.

"You turned away then because you knew I was not worthy of you."

"Sayid--"

"Would you turn away tonight?"

She was quiet for a time. He could hear the sound of her breathing. "No," she said, so low he had to strain to hear her. "No I would not."

He turned to face her, and she stood there, leaning against the tree, awaiting him. He caressed her cheek with his hand, and then he leaned in to taste her lips. Her softness surprised him, but the strength of his own need surprised him more. He kissed her tenderly at first, but when her lips parted ever so slightly, he took it for an invitation, and he plunged his tongue inside. Gently but firmly, she pushed him away.

He looked at her with concern, and his eyes seemed to ask if he had offended her.

"Slow down, Sayid."

"It was just a kiss," he said.

"It was not just a kiss."

"So do I have guidelines? Or do I stumble like a blind man?" He was not angry. His question was genuine. He wished to respect her beliefs, but he wished also to take the most she was willing to offer.

"The are many Muslims," she said, "who believe you should not kiss at all until you are married."

"Then marry me."

She laughed. He loved the sound. Until he had arrived in America, he had never heard her womanly laugh. Weak smiles were all that had greeted him in those dark chambers. "Would you marry me for just a kiss, Sayid?"

"Yes, Nadia, at this moment, I would marry you for just a kiss."

"It is too soon to suggest such a thing. Ask me again in one month, and you will have your answer one way or the other."

"Very well. And until then, I may not kiss you?"

"You may kiss me," she said, and he was surprised to see her blushing. He had never had that affect on her before. "Just…"

"No tongue?"

"You think me narrow, don't you?"

"No, Nadia, I think you have beliefs and the courage to maintain them, whatever the world may think of you. But…it will not be easy for me."

She reached out and touched his hand. "It is not easy for me either." She began to trail her fingers slowly, suggestively up his right arm. She drew close to him. She did not press her body against him, but he felt as if she had, so exhilarating was her nearness. Her fingers surrounded his muscular shoulder.

"Westerners," she said, and her soothing voice alone brought a tingling to his flesh, "are so quick to leap in bed with one another." Now she began to trail the fingers of her other hand up his left arm, and his breathing slowed, growing deep and shallow. "They never have a chance, Sayid," she continued, as she began to caress his other shoulder, lowering her voice, "they never have a chance to discover how _exciting_ modesty can be."

He wondered if she could see how his eyes were darkening there beneath the dim light of the moon, wondered if she could feel the shudder of desire he took such pains to control. It was just a touch…just a simple touch…a hand on the arm, on the shoulder…nothing more. _Nothing more! _And yet he was as aroused as if some other beautiful woman had utterly unrobed herself before him.

When she smiled, he was sure she knew exactly how her touch had affected him. She withdrew her hands from his shoulders and trailed them just as slowly down both arms, until she had captured his two hands in her own.

"Would you like to kiss me again, Sayid?"

He did not answer her aloud, but his lips claimed hers, and without even opening her mouth, she managed somehow to respond passionately. This time, he was the one to pull away. "Nadia," he whispered, and raised a hand to stroke her cheek. "Nadia, you madden me."

Her hand covered his where he touched her, and she turned his palm to kiss it. "Modesty is not such an unpleasant thing, is it Sayid?"

"No," he replied through his labored breathing. "No, it is not." And then he bent to kiss her once again, more chastely than he had ever kissed a beautiful woman, and yet that unadorned kiss was like a fanning wind upon the embers of a fire.


	7. Chapter 7: The Test

**Chapter Seven: The Test **

"**Be quiet now and wait.**

**It could be that the ocean you so long**

**To enter and become**

**Wants you out on shore a little longer."**

**-- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet **

Sayid took Nadia out one night a week, when she could secure a babysitter. And twice a week he dined with her and her son at their house. This evening, as he approached her door, he heard Sigh playing in the backyard. He went through the side gate to join him. He glanced at the sliding glass door that opened to the dinning room and waved at Nadia. She waved back and continued setting the table.

"Want to throw to me, Mr. Jarrah?" Sigh asked, taking a baseball from his mitt and holding it up.

"I'd like to," Sayid replied, and caught the ball the boy tossed to him. He had a powerful arm for a five year old.

They tossed the ball for awhile, Sayid catching it with a burning smack in his bare hands, until Sigh threw a particularly long shot over the backyard fence, and they heard a thud, silence, and then a plop as if the ball had fallen into the creek that ran behind the house. Immediately Sigh made as if he would scale the fence. Sayid stopped him. "It is just a ball. Let it go. I will get you another."

"No," the boy said anxiously. "No, it's not just a ball. I have to get it." He tried to climb up, but he could not gain a foothold.

"If it is important to you, I will get it for you. Wait here." Sayid grabbed the top of the fence and vaulted himself over it. He tried to get down to the creek where the ball was, but the brambles tore at his pants. He therefore made his way to an opening in the brush, and then waded up the creek until he had recovered the ball. When he returned, he was soaked from the knees down.

Sigh thanked him and went to sit at the picnic table, turning the ball over and over in his hands. Sayid sat across from him. "Why is the ball so special?" he asked.

"My dad gave it to me, just before he died. I…I don't remember much about him. If I didn't have pictures, I wouldn't even remember what he looked like. But I remember him giving me this."

"Not many children have memories from when they were that young, Sigh."

"Mr. Jarrah?" Sigh asked hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Are you just being nice to me because you want to make my mother like you?"

Sayid was startled. The boy was unusually articulate for a five year old—his mother had taught him well, and he had just started attending the Muslim school this year. He thought he had better answer without condescension. "I do care very much for your mother, Sigh. But she already likes me. I don't have to use you for that."

"Oh," replied the boy. "Because that's what the other guy was doing."

"What other guy?"

"About five months ago, this guy started coming to dinner, like you. But I didn't like him, and I told my mom. And then he stopped coming around."

"Oh," replied Sayid. "I see. And why did you not like him?"

The boy shrugged. "I didn't like the way he looked at her."

"How did he look at her?"

"Like the wolf."

"The wolf?"

"You know, the big bad wolf, in the Little Red Riding Hood story."

"Ah." Sayid was familiar with the fairy tale. He had read such tales and fables when he had studied English at Cairo University. "And me, do you dislike me as well?"

The boy seemed to consider for a moment. "No," he said. "I don't mind the way you look at her. More like the beast."

"The beast?" Sayid's voice rose with concern. The comparison did not sound favorable.

"You know, in the movie, _Beauty and the Beast_. The way the Beast looks at Belle."

He did not know that story, but if the boy was content with the analogy, he assumed it could not be bad. Before he had a chance to reply, Nadia had called them into dinner. She looked down at Sayid's dirty, torn, and soaking pants. "I had to recover a ball," he explained.

She glanced accusingly at Sigh, who lowered his eyes and came in the house. "Well," she said, smiling at Sayid, "at least you passed his test."

"His test?" Sayid asked with incredulity. "You mean the ball is not special to him?"

"Oh, it is. His father gave it to him. But I don't think he lost it in the creek on accident. It isn't the first time he's lost it there. I'll have a talk with him."

"No, please. It is all right."

"Being deceptive is not all right, Sayid, whatever his motives."

"Let it go this one time, Nadia. He is just a boy who has lost his father, and he is afraid someone might try to replace him."

She nodded her agreement and motioned for him to come in. She surveyed the damage once again. Pulling closed the sliding glass door she said, "We have to get you out of those pants."


	8. Chapter 8: Temptation

**Chapter Eight: Temptation**

**I was a thorn rushing to be with a rose, **

**vinegar blending with honey…**

**Then I found some dirt to make an ointment **

**that would honor my soul…**

**Love says, "You are right, **

**but don't claim these changes. **

**Remember, I am wind. **

**You are an ember I ignite."**

**_-- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet_**

"I have a box in storage of Bashar's old clothes," Nadia continued. "I meant to bring them to my brother-in-law in Australia, but I forgot. Come with me and I will see if I can get you some clean pants."

She told Sigh they would return shortly, and Sayid followed her up the stairs. He stood in the doorway of her bedroom but did not follow her inside. He wasn't sure if it was appropriate. He leaned on the door frame as she went into a walk-in closet and came out with a box. "Do you have a pocket knife?" she asked.

He took out his knife and took a few steps inside. He handed it to her and then glanced at the bed. He bit his lip and tried very hard to suppress his imagination.

She cut open the taped box and handed him a pair of pants. "Try this, and then join us back downstairs. You can put yours in the hamper in the closet." She looked him up and down. "Or the trash."

When she left, he put on the pants. They were a little loose, but he took a belt from the box to cinch them. He also had to roll up the legs about five inches—Bashar had been a tall man.

Later that evening, when Nadia went to read Sigh his bedtime stories and put him to bed, Sayid looked through their video collection until he had located _Beauty and the Beast_. After twenty minutes of playing a little, fast forwarding a little, and playing a little more, he heard a voice behind him. "What are you watching, Sayid?" Nadia sat on the couch next to him, and he turned off the video with the remote.

"_Beauty and the Beast_," he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Your son said I looked at you the way the Beast looks at Belle. I just wanted to see what he meant."

"And what did he mean? How _does_ the Beast look at Belle?"

He put the remote down on the end table. "I think with gratitude. And love. At least when he is not in a rage."

She laughed and leaned against him. He placed an arm around her shoulder. "This is my favorite part of the evening," he said.

"Mine too."

They were quiet for awhile, sitting close together, Sayid rubbing his hand slowly up and down her arm. Her head was nestled beneath his chin.

"Thank you for making an effort with Sigh."

"He is a fine boy, Nadia. You have been a good mother. Did you and Bashar want other children?"

She pulled slightly away from him. "Yes," she said. "We tried, but I was unable…If you marry me, Sayid, I can give you no children."

"If you marry me, you will give me a son, and I will love him as my own."

She took his hand and drew it into her lap, turning slightly to him. "There is something else you should know." He waited for her to continue. "You know I was burned with acid here," she touched the skin just beneath her neck. "I showed you that, in Iraq."

"Yes," he said, gritting his teeth at the memory.

"But that is not the only place. My entire…my entire left breast is disfigured."

He recoiled at the thought not of her disfigurement, but of his own past sins. He had not beaten her—the full confidence he had been afforded to interrogate her alone had spared him that iniquity—but he had imprisoned her for over a month, and he had tortured many others…it might as well have been her. He felt he was to blame for her scars.

The old guilt-wounds had been sewn-up by grace, but they had never fully closed; Allah kept ripping them open, to heal and heal again. It was well and just, he thought. He might grow complacent otherwise. He might forget, in the warmth of Nadia's smile, how little he deserved her.

"Nadia, I am sorry for what you have suffered, and for what I was. I regret--"

"I do not say this, Sayid, so that you will unearth guilt that ought to remain buried. I say it so you will not be surprised. So that you will not be repulsed when you see…when you see me."

It brought Sayid a great sense of joy to hear her speak as if it were already certain they would one day marry. He cupped her chin in his hand and titled her head up to force her to look at him directly, so that the clouds of his soul might dissolve in the tender light of her eyes. "Your beauty overthrows me, Nadia, and it always will. No disfigurement can ever change that."

When they kissed, her lips parted, and before he could reign in his desire, he had slipped his tongue gracefully inside. He withdrew and looked at her with penance, but she did not rebuke him. Instead she leaned in for more, covered his lips with her own, and accepted the penetrating depths of his kiss.

It was he who pulled away, at length. "I had better leave now, Nadia."

"Sayid?" Her hand stole over his hand.

He took it and squeezed it. "Nadia, I…I will not be able to…You have ignited me. My desire cannot subside in your presence. I should go. Now."

She let go of his hand and nodded. She looked at once grateful and regretful, full of respect for him, and full of need. He was pleased to see that she desired him too. "Thank you, Sayid," she said quietly.

She followed him to the door, but she kept her distance, and when she bid him farewell, she did no more than reach out and brush his hand.


	9. Chapter 9: Permission

**Chapter Nine: Permission**

"**To everything there is a season, **

**and a time to every purpose under the heaven…**

**A time to kill, and a time to heal; **

**a time to break down, and a time to build up; **

**a time to weep, and a time to laugh; **

**a time to mourn, and a time to dance."**

– **Ecclesiastes 3:1-4**

Sayid offered to take Sigh fishing so that he might spend more time with the boy and give Nadia a weekend afternoon to herself. She was delighted by the idea, and he and Sigh found a nice spot at a local lake. He showed the boy how to bait the hook and cast the line, and they sat side by side quietly on the pier for awhile.

"I like spending time with you, Sigh," said Sayid to start the conversation.

"You do?"

"Yes, very much. How would you feel…how would you like it if I were around much more often?"

"Do you want to marry my mother?"

Sayid laughed, but his laugh was a little nervous. Was a child actually intimidating him? "How old are you, Sigh?"

"Five."

"You act much older. And, since you are the man of your house…"

At this Sigh sat up a little taller and straighter.

"…I ought to be direct with you. Yes, I want to marry your mother, if she will have me, and I would like your blessing before I ask her."

At this Sigh slumped a little and shrugged. "I guess it would be okay."

"You guess?"

"You're okay. My mom wasn't happy for a long time…I mean, she only mourned the four months and ten days, 'cause you're not supposed to mourn more. But she wasn't happy. She hid it pretty well, but she wasn't happy. She's happy now. I guess you probably have something to do with that."

"I would like to think I do."

"So, when are you going to ask her?"

"Soon." The month Nadia had asked him to wait had almost drawn to a close, and he had been courting her for almost seven weeks total. Not a long time, he thought, but seven was a good number. Allah had rested on the seventh day. He wanted to rest, too.

"Well, don't worry. I won't tell her you're gonna."

"I think she already expects me to, Sigh."

"Yeah? Do you think she'll say yes?"

Sayid steadied his pole. "If I did not, we would not have had this conversation."

"Oh."

"Are you really fine with this, Sigh?"

The boy nodded. "Maybe she won't have to work as hard when you marry her."

"She will not have to work at all, unless she wishes too. I can support her and you."

"Good," Sigh said firmly, as though he were proud of himself for playing the man and making sure his mother would be properly provided for. But it was very much a boy's excitement that permeated his voice when he shouted, "Hey, hey, I've got something!"

Sayid helped him to reel in the fish and showed him how to remove the hook. They put the fish in a cooler, where Sigh watched it flop frantically about. "It's still alive, Mr. Jarrah."

"Yes, but it will die soon from lack of oxygen." The boy looked a little pale. "Look, Sigh, if you would like to do something else today, we can--"

"No, no!" he insisted. "I like fishing. I can do it. After all, I'm the man of the house." He grabbed a piece of bait and speared his hook with it. He looked up at Sayid and smiled, saying, "Well, at least for a little while longer." He didn't seem particularly upset to be surrendering the responsibility.


	10. Chapter 10: Vulnerabilty

**Chapter Ten: Vulnerability**

**Don't sleep now. **

**Let the turning night wheel through this circle. **

**Your brow, the moon, this lantern we sit with. **

**Stay awake with these lights. **

**Don't sleep.**

**- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet**

When they returned home that afternoon, Sayid showed Sigh how to scale and clean the fish, and Nadia cooked them for dinner. While she put Sigh to bed later that evening, Sayid sat in her living room paging through a book of poetry he had found on her shelves. He looked up when he heard her approaching footsteps and smiled.

"I have been meaning to ask you, Sayid, if I could have your business card, in case I ever need to reach you at work."

"Of course," he said, putting the book aside and standing to remove his wallet from his pocket. As he struggled to pull it out he accidentally dropped it, and it fell open on the ground, several items spilling out of the billfold. Nadia bent to recover the papers, among which was a photograph of Shannon that Sayid had taken from Boone's wallet after she had died. He had almost forgotten it was there.

Nadia glanced at it and then handed it back to Sayid without looking at him. He was sure she was trying to mask some emotion.

"That is Shannon," he said quietly.

"She was very beautiful," she said. "_Very_ beautiful."

"Yes," he said. "She was."

She smiled weakly and then moved over to the bookcase, where she began fingering the spines of the books.

"Nadia, is something wrong?"

"What should be wrong?"

"You were bothered by the picture, why?"

"I knew she would be beautiful." Nadia shrugged. "I just did not guess how beautiful…or how young."

"Why should it bother you? The fact that your husband was handsome does not disturb me."

"Because you are handsome also."

Sayid approached her and stood in front of her. "What is it that you are saying, Nadia? What is the reason for this insecurity? _I_ am the one who has pursued you."

"Sayid, I told you about the acid. And there are other marks. And I am older than you, and…"

"Do you think I am more shallow than your Bashar?" She did not respond. "Do you, Nadia? Do you have so little regard for me?"

"It was not easy for him, Sayid," she said, looking back at the books. "He loved me, but it took him awhile to grow accustomed…He always tried very hard to assure me of his admiration, and to mask the occasional repugnance, but I could see it, Sayid. I could see it."

She looked at him, and he was surprised to behold the feeling of insignificance in her eyes. He had once reached for her like a leper reaching for the robe of Jesus. She had seemed to him a vision just beyond his grasp, but now she only seemed vulnerable.

He reached out to trail a finger down her cheekbone, and he discovered that he loved her vulnerability, as much as he loved her strength. There _was_ velvet underneath that steel. She quivered beneath his touch.

"I am not your husband," he said as he leaned in to kiss her. When their lips parted, he whispered, "But I would like to be."

"I would like that, too," she said quietly.

"I had meant to plan a more romantic proposal. Fine food, candlelight, and instruments."

"We had fresh-caught fish, the moon shinning through the sliding glass door, and…"

"…The music of two hearts beating close together." He kissed her again. "Then you will marry me?"

"Yes."

"How soon?"

"Well," she said, smiling, "you know the tradition is that you not see me for forty days before the wedding and that I be lavished with oils…"

He looked horrified. She laughed. "I am jesting, Sayid. As we are in America, and as we have only one surviving sister each, I think we can dispense with the custom. But I would like the pre-wedding week, with all the music and dancing. And I'd like my sister and brother-in-law to have the time to fly in from Australia."

"And I would like mine to come from France. And some friends, from the island, perhaps, for a reception afterward. Not at the ceremony in the mosque. That can be very intimate."

Her smile brought such loveliness to her face that he thought his heart would swell too tight within his chest. He pulled her close against him, body pressed to body, and whispered in her ear, "Soon, Nadia, soon you will discover just how much I hunger for you. And you will never doubt your beauty again."

She sighed longingly against his cheek, and the warm breeze of her breath did not help to cool his ardor. He drew away and suggested, as he had on evenings previous, that he should leave.

"Please stay," she asked softly. And with a slight smile, she added, "I will strive not to tempt you. We could sit on the porch, in the moonlight…and just talk."

He followed her outside and they sat side by side in a porch swing. He let one arm drape over her shoulder, and she leaned naturally against him. "Do you wish to stay settled in America?" he asked.

She sighed. "So much is happening in Iraq now. So much has changed, and could yet be changed for the better, or for the worse, depending upon who holds sway. Most of those who sought our lives are dead now."

"Do you mean you wish to return?"

"Wish? Yes. But I would not. It is too dangerous for Sigh, and Iraq has never been his home. He is an American citizen, and he likes it here. He has made friends. And the Muslim school is quite good. It is just…I was used to a certain kind of power, Sayid."

"And you feel useless here."

"Something like that. When I was girl, I was accustomed to influence. My family was wealthy; the boys all pursued me. But when I became involved in the resistance…"

It was the first time she had admitted to him that she had not been innocent. He had known she was involved, though she had never confessed. But then again, it was really he who had been the guilty one, wasn't it?

"When I was first interrogated, I was stripped of my dignity, flayed of my beauty. My family was robbed of most of its money, and eventually they were robbed from me…one by one. It brought down my haughtiness, Sayid. I began to learn what real sacrifice means—not playing at politics, not delighting in influence—but truly sacrificing."

He was quiet and waited for her to continue.

"Yes, I would like to return to Iraq. But it is a selfish desire. I have a child, and he must be my priority, not some self-serving wish to make myself feel important. Yes, I want to settle in America, if we can."

"I will meet with my immigration lawyer tomorrow." He pushed off the porch with his feet, and they swayed gently back and forth. "Nadia, did you find some fulfillment, at least, when you worked for the charities that labored in Iraq?"

"Yes. For a time, I was director of a foundation that was helping to rebuild the schools. It was entirely a volunteer position, however. There was no salary involved."

"You understand, do you not, that I will support you and our son. You can do that again, if you wish."

"Our son?" He felt her snuggle closer.

"Yes. Our son. I will adopt him legally, of course."

"Sayid," she said quietly, "I appreciate your offer, but…I think it is more expensive to live here than you realize. My own salary has not been enough. I am…" The next two words she said with obvious shame: "...in debt."

"How much?"

"Sayid--"

"If I am to be your husband, Nadia, I will have to know these things."

She told him, explaining that when Bashar was alive, they lived in part off of his income and in part off of some family money she had managed to hide before fleeing Iraq. "But it is exhausted now." As she spoke, she had drawn away from him. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was looking down at them. "I was planning to take a second job soon," she said.

He covered both her hands with one of his own. "Nadia, I _will_ support you."

She glanced at him. "I have offended you, Sayid. I am only trying to be realistic--"

"Nadia, I make nearly one hundred thousand dollars a year. In two years, I will be making close to one hundred and fifty."

He watched her mouth fall slightly open. Surprise was not an expression he was accustomed to seeing on her face. She controlled her emotions as precisely as he did. "For tinkering with radios?" she asked.

He laughed heartily. "Well, my betrothed, it is somewhat more complicated than that. But yes…essentially…for tinkering with radios. My skills are apparently in very high demand here. And I am very good at what I do."

"I am sure you are." She was smiling and shaking her head. She leaned back against him again. His arm slid around her shoulders.

"I think you admire me now," he said with a teasing smile.

"I admired you, Sayid, when you had nothing to offer me but an indifferent glance across the schoolyard."

"And that is why you laughed and shoved me down in the dirt."

"Yes," she answered.

"And is that how you will express your admiration when we are wed? By shoving me down?"

"Perhaps," she said and turned slightly to kiss his ear. Her voice was low and suggestive. "But not in the dirt."

He kissed her lips, drew away, and said firmly, "Do not tease me tonight, Nadia, or there will be consequences."

"I apologize," she said with a smile, and settled her head back against his shoulder. "I will behave myself."

He drew her still closer. They did not speak again. They merely swayed to and fro in the swing, looking at the starlight breaking through the bleak night shadows, drawing warmth and quiet strength from one another.


	11. Chapter 11: The Pearl

**Chapter Eleven: The Pearl**

"**As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,**

**So is my beloved among the sons.**

**I sat down under his shadow with delight,**

**And his fruit was sweet to my taste.**

**He brought me to the banqueting house,**

**And his banner over me was love."**

_**- Song of Solomon 2:2-4**_

The ceremony had been very traditional and very intimate; only Nadia and Sayid's sisters and brothers-in-law had attended, along with Sigh and a handful of friends from the congregation of Nadia's mosque. The reception, however, was boisterous, and modeled itself more on American custom. The guests included those who had attended the ceremony, as well as neighbors and several survivors from the island.

When Claire at last had a chance to embrace Sayid, she said, "See, I told you that you would find your Nadia. Although, at the time, I didn't really expect her to be _your_ Nadia. You know, I meant a different Nadia."

Sayid laughed. He glanced at his smiling wife. "Yes. Well, fate has been kinder to me than I had hoped." He looked around. "Is Locke with you?"

"You didn't hear?" she asked. "He went back to the island."

Sayid wasn't precisely surprised. He saw Charlie draw up behind her and ask if she wanted a drink. "Sure, thanks Charlie," she said, before reaching out to touch Nadia's shoulder. "Congratulations. You've got yourself a good man."

"I know," Nadia replied, "and it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Claire. I have heard a great deal about you."

"Really?" Claire glanced at Sayid. She looked almost flattered. Sayid nodded, and Claire left them to find Charlie.

"Although," Nadia said, leaning over to her husband, "you failed to mention how young and pretty she was." But there was no insecurity in her voice, and her smile proved she delighted in the teasing. "You like the blonde ones, do you?"

He took her hand and drew her close enough to whisper in her ear, "I like the ones who are _mine_. And finally, that means you."

Before Nadia could respond, Mahir, the husband of Sayid's surviving sister, offered a toast. "In the words of Rumi," he said, in his heavily accented but well-formed English, "whom I understand to be my brother-in-law's favorite poet, _May this marriage have a fair face and a good name, an omen as welcome as the moon in a clear blue sky_." He raised his glass to the couple. "_I am out of words to describe how spirit mingles in this marriage_."

After a round of other such toasts, Sayid knew it was his turn to say something to the company. He held his glass uncomfortably in his hand. The last time he had attempted a speech in public, he had been standing at Shannon's grave. Then, sorrow had choked him; now it was joy that threatened to tangle his tongue. Joy—and a hint of unease. Most of the people in this room had known nothing of his love for Nadia, and now he had to put that truth into words.

He steadied his nerves and spoke. "Mahir has quoted Rumi. I too will quote him. Rumi tells of the _drop that left its homeland, the sea, and then returned_. What became of that drop, so long and so far from its home? What did it find when at last received the grace to return? _It found an oyster waiting_, says Rumi, _and grew into a pearl._

"Consider how oysters make pearls. First, some irritant, some speck of sand, lodges itself there, and the oyster cannot bring itself to expel the parasite. No. Instead, the oyster in its mercy soothes the very thing that aggravates it; it covers the irritant in a crystalline substance. As long as that irritant abides in the oyster, the oyster continues to coat it, layer upon layer upon layer. It takes a long time, sometimes a very long time, but at last, a pearl emerges."

He shifted his glass in his hand and watched the liquid swirl before he continued. "Nadia began working a change in my heart many, many years ago. Others—some who are here today…some who have passed on—continued that work, and Allah gave me the strength to endure it. But that work was not completed until I found my Nadia again. She has not always coated me with gentleness—at times she has been quite blunt—but she has always persevered in varnishing me with love, even when I was worse than an irritant. For that, I will be forever grateful and forever transformed."

He paused again, took a breath, and said, "Nadia is Arabic for _beginning_. Nadia was my beginning, and today I am happy to claim her as my end as well." Now he lifted his glass. "To my bride, to my soul, to my first and my last love."


	12. Chapter 12: Wedding Night

**Chapter Twelve: Wedding Night**

**I sleep, but my heart waketh:**

**it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh,**

**saying, open to me, my sister,**

**my love, my dove, my undefiled.**

**_- Song of Solomon 5:2_**

Sayid and Nadia left before their guests did. Nadia's sister and brother-in-law had agreed to watch Sigh for the weekend at their house. The newlyweds, however, retreated to a private bed and breakfast north of Irvine.

Nadia was still uneasy about the scars that marred her, and so she asked Sayid to allow her to leave on a shirt that just covered them. He consented, not wanting her discomfort to lead to timidity in their lovemaking.

He had expected her to be somewhat passionate; after all, she had been so zealous and courageous in the other aspects of her life. Yet their courtship has been so modest that, despite his expectations, her ardor still astounded him.

As she lay in his arms after their first night together, she said, "You seem somewhat surprised."

"And delighted to be surprised," he replied. "I had not…been prepared for such responsiveness." He stroked her back through the light shirt, the only article of clothing that remained between them.

She lifted herself up on one elbow so that she could look into his eyes. "Restraint is required in courtship, Sayid, but it has no place in the marriage bed." She stroked his dark and luxurious curls. She no longer claimed to have liked his hair better short. "You are my husband. I wish to satisfy you. Whatever you desire, you need only ask, and I am willing."

Her words excited him, but before he allowed his imagination to roam, he pulled himself into a sitting position in the bed and lifted her to sit across from him.

"There _is_ something I would like at this moment," he said.

"Name it," she whispered.

"Take off your shirt."

He saw her shiver. Quietly, she pleaded, "Sayid--"

"Please, Nadia. This is what I ask of you."

She crossed her arms and pulled the shirt over her head, but she looked away from him. She could not witness his reaction. She felt his fingers rest gently just below her neck, just above her mutilated skin. "Will it hurt you if I touch the scars?" he asked, and no hint of revulsion jarred in his voice.

"No," she whispered, feeling the tears of gratitude mounting in her eyes, holding them back, "it no longer hurts." And then she felt the tender heat of his fingers on her flesh, slowly caressing every inch the acid had burned. Emboldened by his actions, she dared now to look at him, and she saw only love in his eyes.

When his fingers reached the end of the scarring, he slid them slowly to the right and began trailing them upward across her unmarked flesh. He listened with great relief to her sigh of pleasure, and then he leaned forward to kiss her ear, into which he whispered, "No more hiding, Nadia. Not from each other. Not ever."

Now she could no longer control the tears, and she let them fall, let them fall softly and gratefully as her husband slowly made love to her, unashamed of her physical scars, just as she was unashamed of the guilt that had so long scarred his soul. Together, they were whole again.


	13. Chapter 13: Expectation

**COURTSHIP **

**PART II**

**MARRIAGE**

_Summary: Sayid and Nadia live out their married lives together while Claire develops an unexpected relationship with Sawyer. _

**Chapter Thirteen: Expectation**

**Children are a gift from the Lord.  
They are a reward from him.   
Children who are born to people when they are young  
are like arrows in the hands of a soldier. **

_**- Psalm 127:3-5**_

Sayid sometimes wondered what his life would have been like if Shannon had lived, if they had both been rescued from that island. He would still have sought out Nadia, if only to ask for her forgiveness. But he would not have courted her. He had vowed never to leave Shannon, and he could not now think of himself dishonoring such a vow. He supposed he would eventually have married her.

And yet, when he thought of it, he could not envision their life together outside of the island. How would Shannon, for instance, have reacted to his return to the religion of his childhood? She certainly would not have converted, though she may have tolerated his own private practice; but there would have been a great part of his life he could not share with her, a community he was tied to from which she was cut off.

Then again, he thought, would he have ever come back to Islam if Shannon had not been shot before his eyes, if the last salve for his conscience had not been ripped violently from him, leaving his soul naked before Allah? Probably not. He would have paid occasional lip service to the faith of his fathers, and he would have prayed from time to time. But he would not often have attended a mosque; he would not have bowed at every dawn, at every mid-day, at every late afternoon, at every sunset, and at every night fall; he would not have studied the Koran by lamplight on those nights he could not sleep. He would have been a different man. Not a bad man, but a different man.

Sayid shrugged to himself. He was sitting in the garage—poor Nadia had not been able to park her car in there since they had wed—tinkering with bits and pieces of radios that lay strewn about on a workbench. It was not for his profession; he just liked to take things apart. He enjoyed the pleasure of making things work once more, delighting in the knowledge that whatever is broken down can always be built up.

He heard the door to the house open and felt Nadia draw up behind him. When the warmth of her arms surrounded his shoulders, he put down the radio and the screwdriver he held. He placed a hand on each of her arms, and he leaned back against her. She bent to kiss the top of his head. "Sayid," she said, "it's getting late. I do not know how much longer I can stay awake."

"It is not yet 8:30," he said.

"It's 9:45."

He let go of one of her arms and reached for the watch he had laid on the table. She was right. The time had slipped away from him again.

"You do not have to wait up for me, Nadia," he said.

She leaned in and kissed his neck; she knew how much he loved to have her tease that precise spot. "Must I be blunt, Sayid?"

"I see," he replied, turning to sweep her into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and their lips joined in a deep kiss. When they drew apart, he asked, "Then you are feeling better? I had thought you were still unwell."

"No, I am well," she said, stroking his cheek. "Though I have discovered the cause of my illness."

"And what is that?" he asked, beginning to trail kisses from her cheek to her shoulder.

"I'm pregnant."

For a while he just kept kissing her. At length, however, her words seemed to penetrate the fog of desire that had fallen upon his mind, and his lips froze on their way back up to her cheek, just at the hollow of her neck. He drew away. "You are…you are…what?"

"Pregnant."

"I thought…You had said…I thought you could not…"

"I thought so too. Apparently, I was mistaken."

"Oh." His hands fell away from her hips. She had to draw her arms tighter around him to remain steady.

"Oh?" she repeated. "Is that all you have to say? Are you upset?"

"No, Nadia, no. Certainly not." And now his arms surrounded her again, drawing her close. "I am only…surprised."

It was but three days ago that, for the first time, his stepson Sigh had called him "Dad." The boy had not even seemed to notice the shift; the word had just begun tripping naturally from his tongue. But the change had struck Sayid powerfully. He was just now beginning to feel like a father to Sigh, and here his wife was telling him that he was now also to be blessed with a child of his own—_their_ child.

He kissed her softly. His left hand drifted from her hip to her belly. "How far along?"

"Five weeks."

"Boy or girl?"

She laughed. "How would I know, Sayid?"

"I would like a little girl," he said, "with her mother's eyes and her mother's courage." He bent down to kiss her stomach. "But I would settle for a boy," he concluded.

Nadia buried her fingers in his hair and drew his face back to hers, demanding his mouth. When his hand strayed to cup her breast, she broke the kiss and whispered, "Let's go to bed."

He lifted her from his lap and took her hand. He followed as she led him back to the door, away from the strewn remnants of fractured radios, through the living room, up the stairs, and past Sigh's bedroom to their own. They heard the child stirring in his room and paused in the doorway for a moment until he had quieted. They passed through the entrance, and Sayid quietly closed the door behind them.

Tonight both were content to unite in relative silence, their motions unhurried, their usual passions calmed by tenderness. She knew he was truly happy to be having a child because every time he caught her eye, he smiled. She adored him when he did that, and he did not do it often enough.

Later, when she lay spooned in his embrace, he spoke. "I love you, Nadia," he said quietly. She knew that he did—everything he did proved it to her—but when she thought of it now, she realized that he rarely said the words. He kissed the back of her neck and murmured, "Thank you for giving yourself to me…for giving me a son…and now, for giving me another child."

She rolled over to face him and wound her arms around him, laying her head gently upon his chest. "I love you, too, Sayid. Not as a child loves…not anymore. I never knew that I could love you quite like this."

They fell asleep like that, wrapped together in a peaceful embrace, dreaming no more of the past but only of the future.


	14. Chapter 14: Foreboding

**Chapter Fourteen: Foreboding**

**"The minute I heard my first love story  
I started looking for you,  
not knowing  
how blind that I was.  
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere  
They're in each other all along." **

**_-- Rumi, 13th century Sufi poet._**

Those pleasant dreams did not last long for Nadia, however. Within a week, the nightmare had returned—the one she had dreamed almost nightly before Sayid had returned to her—the one in which she was being tortured for the first time by the Republican Guard. She had dreamed the nightmare only twice since their marriage, and she had awoken in a cold but silent sweat the first time. She had told him nothing.

The second time, however, he had shaken her awake from a fit of screaming, and he would not relent until she had told him the subject of her terror. She saw the guilt drown the warmth of his eyes as he recalled his own part in similar past sins, and she regretted telling him.

Tonight, therefore, when she awoke with a gasp and found him still asleep, she did not rouse him. She slipped quietly from the bed and drew a robe tightly around herself. The weather was warm, but still she shivered as she walked out onto the balcony that adjoined the master bedroom. She sat in a plastic chair, drew her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. Tonight, the dream had been different. Tonight, the blood had poured not from her feet or her hands, but from her womb. She felt the tears wet her cheeks, but she would not allow herself to sob.

She heard the door slide open and closed and listened to the pat of her husband's bare feet on the cement. He sat in the chair next to her. The outside light was off, and she hoped he could not see her tears in the light of the moon.

He must not have, for there was only a casual concern in his voice when he asked, "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

She thought she could not reply without sounding choked, and so she only nodded. He thought she saw him smile, but she could not tell for sure.

"I can help you with that," he said softly, and she knew from his tone what he was suggesting. But as he stood and walked near to bend to kiss her, he saw the tears on her cheeks. He halted halfway to her lips. "Nadia, whatever is the matter?"

She almost said, "Nothing," and then she thought how foolish such a denial would be. Sayid was her husband. She was not afraid of baring her soul to him; she had always been direct, as had he. If she hesitated now, it was only because she did not want to see the guilt rise again to mar his beautiful features. So she said only, "I am worried about the baby." That much was true, and it was more important than the dream.

He drew her from the chair and sat in it himself, pulling her down to cradle her on his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder against his neck. His strong fingers tenderly wiped the tears from her cheek. "Why are you worried?" he asked quietly.

"Because…I am not a young woman anymore, and this was such a surprise, such a blessing. If we lose this child, there may never be another."

He drew her close. He did not know what to say to her. Nothing he said would ease her worries, whether they were well founded or not. So rather than attempt to dismiss her concerns or assure her of what she could not effortlessly hope, he merely asked, "What can I do?" _Doing_, after all, was what he did best.

He did not know what task she might suggest to him, but he was prepared for any effort. He had not anticipated her simple response: "Make love to me."

He did not ask, "Are you sure?" He did not ask, "How will that help?" He asked only, "How would you like me to make love to you?"

As he guided her back into their bedroom, she told him what she desired, and his careful ministrations drove the dream from her mind.

Afterward, when they lay intertwined with one another, she asked him, "Tell me about the people on the island."

"The people on the island? Why?"

"Because I love to hear your voice. And in order to get you to talk, I know I must give you a topic."

He lazily stroked her side. "Which of them would you like me to talk about?"

"Start with the good-looking blonde."

"Claire? I have told you everything about her." Claire had been one of the few to offer Sayid consolation and understanding after Shannon's death. She still continued to maintain her friendship with him by writing letters from Australia and calling from time to time.

"No," Nadia said, snuggling a little closer to her. "The _man_."

"Charlie?" he asked in disbelief. No doubt there were many women who found Charlie attractive. Claire herself had striven to be one of them, but at length she had reluctantly told the musician she wanted nothing more than friendship, and she was currently enjoying living unencumbered by any romantic relationship. But Sayid did not think Charlie—wispy, chatty Charlie—was the kind of man his wife would find attractive.

Nadia laughed and caught his hand, drawing his arm around her waist. "No, the other one with the sexy southern drawl."

"Sawyer?"

"Yes, Sawyer."

He drew her possessively closer, and she snuggled her back against his stomach. "I am not sure, Nadia, that I quite like the idea of you using the words sexy and Sawyer in the same breath. Is it your opinion that Sawyer is good-looking?"

"Not an opinion, really. It's merely an observation of fact."

"Hmmmm…." he murmured. "Sawyer was a con man before the island. Of course, we were _all_ something before the island. And we were all something else when we left. I am rather surprised he came to our wedding reception."

"You did not get along?" she asked. "Why?"

_Because I tortured him_, he thought. "We are very different men. But still he came to the reception. He has no family, no friends in this world. I think the people on the island were the closest he ever got to family. Maybe that is why he came."

"He remained rather aloof," Nadia observed. "Although he did talk quite a bit to Claire, until Charlie drew her off. And he asked your friend—Jack, was it?—about a woman."

"Kate. She is the fugitive Jack married in prison. Sawyer fancied her too."

"You really did encounter an interesting array of people on that island."

"Yes," he said, "and they all played a part in changing me."

"Especially Shannon," she said quietly. They didn't talk about Shannon much. Nadia had asked many questions when they were first courting, and there had been that moment when she had discovered the photograph, but she had not mentioned Shannon since then. Nor did Sayid explicitly mention Bashar, though Nadia's first husband was inevitably present in day to day conversation because of his son Sigh.

"Yes," he replied finally. "She opened my heart to the possibility of love when I had closed it off to the world. She regarded herself as worthless. Loving her made me understand how you could care for me even when I was nothing in my own eyes. It made me realize that there is a time to feel and be moved by the wounds of guilt, but also time to press on."

"Do you miss her?" Nadia asked.

Sayid was surprised by the question. He wondered if she was jealous of what little time he had spent with Shannon, in the same childish way that he was a little jealous—however much he scolded himself for the foolishness—of the years she had been with Bashar.

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes. Do you miss Bashar?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

It did not seem possible to draw her any closer against himself, but he did. Sayid was a reserved man, but one of things that made his marriage to Nadia feel so right was that he was not reserved with her. He did not fear speaking candidly to her; he knew she was not the kind of woman to seek offense or to play games. If he accidentally injured her, she would not make him guess the cause of her pain—she would tell him directly, and she would give him a chance to mend the situation. He therefore did not fear telling her anything. "I feel guilty sometimes, Nadia."

"For what?"

"When I think that it is only because Shannon died that I am here with you."

She didn't say anything. She just took his hand and laced her fingers through his.

"I did love her. And losing her in that violent way…it tore at my heart; it broke my spirit for a time. But, if she had not died…you would not be in my bed tonight." His hand stole down to gently caress her naked belly. "My child would not be growing in your womb."

"You would have married her," she said simply.

"Yes."

"I know the guilt you feel, Sayid. I feel it too when I think of Bashar, when I think that if he had lived, you and I would not have had this…this marriage that we have. It is not that I was not happy with Bashar."

"I would have been happy with Shannon. But it would not have been like this. You were _meant_ for me, Nadia. I was _meant_ to end up here, with you in my arms. But the journey…it had its sorrows and its joys. The sorrows pierce deeper."

"Allah cannot forge steel except with fire."

He considered this quietly for a time. Then he kissed her shoulder softly. "You feel it too?" he asked. "How unique this union is?"

"Yes," she whispered.

For awhile they were quiet. He stroked her arms gently, then her side, her hips, the top of her legs. He pressed his lips against her ear, and his voice was low, the way she liked to hear it. "Nadia," he said, "I want you again."

She turned eagerly to him. Though their conversation had not soothed her into sleep, this second round of lovemaking did, and when at last she drifted off with her head against his chest, the nightmare did not return.


	15. Chapter 15: Surprise

**Chapter Fifteen: Surprise**

Nadia made it to her second trimester without event, and she felt better now that the riskiest part of the pregnancy had passed. Sayid also felt better, not just because she seemed more hopeful, but also because the nausea and the exhaustion seemed to have passed, leaving her far more receptive to his advances. It had been almost ten days since they had made love. Not that he was counting.

She had begun feeling better two days ago, but Sigh had been sick, and the child had monopolized her attention. The boy was well now, and as Sayid drove to work, he was already looking forward to tucking his son into bed and sharing the night alone with his wife.

He had just said his mid-day prayer on the floor of his office and was placing his prayer mat back under the desk when he noticed his supervisor staring at him from the door.

"How often do you people have to do that?" Hank Thompson asked in his slow drawl. Sayid's boss was a transplant from southern Virginia, just north of the Carolina border. He sounded out of place in Irvine.

"We people do it five times a day," replied Sayid. He wasn't offended. When he had first interviewed with Hank, he had thought the man to be something of a redneck, and he had been quite surprised when he had received the job offer. But it hadn't taken Sayid long to realize that it was only his own prejudice that had led him to believe Hank was ignorant and narrow. Well, prejudice coupled with semantics and considerable stylistic differences. Now he rather liked the man.

"Whew…" Hank said. "And I thought going from being Baptist to being Catholic was tough." He had converted to Catholicism at the request of his wife, whom he had married four months ago. "Anyhoo, there's a woman looking for 'ya."

"My wife?"

"I don't think so," he said. "She's real pretty."

"Well," said Sayid, smiling at the clearly unintentional insult, "so is my wife."

"Oh, I'm sure she is. But you said she's Iraqi too. This girl's as white as they come. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and everything. Cute English accent."

Sayid looked puzzled. "You mean Australian?"

"Whatever."

"Where is she?"

"In the conference room," his boss replied. "You taking a late lunch with her?"

"Perhaps."

"Take as long as you want. Just be back by three. The big boss is calling a _team meeting_." The last two words he said with pronounced disdain.

"What for?" asked Sayid.

"For his own glorification, I reckon'. It's not like we haven't outperformed every other department. But he insists he's gotta motivate us."

Sayid laughed. "I will return by then."

Hank stepped out of the doorway. Sayid hurried to the conference room where he discovered the only blonde haired, blue eyed girl he could think would be looking for him. But he was still surprised.

"What are you doing here, Claire?" he asked, giving her a quick hug.

"I got a new job," she said.

"Here in Irvine?"

"No, silly, in Sydney. But it's a consulting firm and companies in the U.S. hire us sometimes. I don't usually travel myself, because of my son, but when I heard they were sending someone to L.A., I volunteered for the trip. Aaron's with my sister in Australia. So it's just me."

"It is wonderful to see you in person. I have not seen you since the reception ten months ago."

He pulled out a chair for her to sit in, and then he sat next to her. "So what do you do?"

"I fire people," she said cheerfully.

His smile faded. "You do what again?"

"I fire people," she said. "It's called _efficiency consulting_. Sounds fetching, doesn't it?" She winked at him, feigning more confidence than she felt. "Basically, companies hire us so they won't have to do it themselves."

Sayid frowned. "Are you here to fire me?"

She laughed. "Good God, no, Sayid. My firm wouldn't bother with this little telecommunications outfit. I'm going to hit one of the big businesses in L.A., starting tomorrow. I've got today off."

"You sound…you sound considerably upbeat about crushing people's livelihoods."

"Well I'm not," she confessed, shaking her head. "It's a horrible business. But someone has to do it, and at least I can do it kindly. I don't know how long I can stand it; sometimes I think I feel worse than the people I'm firing. But you wouldn't believe what they pay me to crush people. I might even be able to send Aaron to college one day."

They talked a little more about their relative positions, both laughing over the egregious salaries they managed to make for the work they did. He suggested they go to a local deli for lunch, and they continued the conversation there. Sayid ate while she sipped coffee. She asked how Nadia's pregnancy was fairing, and he answered optimistically.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. "So, are you still footloose and fancy free?"

"Picking up the native idioms, are you?"

"I doubt that is native to Irvine. Are you _seeing_ anyone?" He emphasized the word to show he knew the English slang.

She nodded.

"Really? What is he like?"

"Brass. Crude. Always saying the wrong thing and failing to ingratiate himself."

Sayid laughed. "You could practically be describing Sawyer."

She looked down at the table. "That's because I am describing Sawyer."

Sayid balled up his napkin and tossed it in his empty sandwich container. He looked at her with disbelief. "This is almost as bad as Locke."

She pretended not to be bothered by his criticism. She raised a hand in exasperation, smiled, and said, "Again with the encouragement."

"At least," Sayid said with a shrug, "he is more your age. But how did this even happen?"

"We actually hung out for a few days together after your reception, at least when I could get away from Charlie. Nothing happened then, or anything, but I had fun. I figured I'd never see him again. But he got this big job in Dallas—can you imagine that, Sawyer, an honest business man?"

Sayid shook his head.

"Anyway," said Claire, taking the lid off her coffee to sip it more easily, "his boss sent him to Australia for what he thought was going to be a business trip. And partly it was. But the other part included me firing him."

Sayid could barely respond, he was laughing so hard. "This is an unbelievable story," he choked out. "You had to fire him?"

"Yep." She took another sip of her coffee and put it down. "But, as I said, at least I can do it kindly. I found a good way to make the medicine go down."

Sayid didn't dare ask her what that way was.

"Hey," Claire said, trying to sound nonchalant while actually sounding a little defensive. "What can I say? He's sexy."

"Or so my wife tells me," he replied.

Claire raised her eyebrows in curiosity. "Well, don't worry," she said with a smile. "I'll take care of the competition for you."


	16. Chapter 16: Dinner

**Chapter Sixteen: Dinner**

Sayid called Nadia to see if she would mind having Claire over for dinner that evening. She agreed readily and the four of them enjoyed a feast of take out together. Nadia did not contribute much to the conversation, but she seemed to enjoy listening to the pair recall memories from the island as they all sat drinking coffee together, except for Sigh, who was watching _Beauty and the Beast_ for the forty-eighth time. He was going for a record.

When it was time for Sigh to be tucked into bed, Sayid said to his wife, "You had better bid farewell to Claire before you take him. She probably will not be here when you get back."

Nadia and Claire said their goodbyes and, when Nadia was out of earshot, Claire asked, "Why do I get the impression you are trying to get rid of me?"

"Uh…" What did he say? _Claire, it has been wonderful seeing you; I have not seen you in ten months and probably will not see you again for well over a year, but I really want to have sex with my wife now before she grows too tired, so please shove off. _

Claire laughed at his uneasy expression. "It's okay. It's okay. I know what those pregnancy hormones are like in the second trimester. For some women, anyway. But at least the nausea is usually gone, even if you don't get that crazy horniness kick. I mean, I was thinking about sex _all the time_."

"That is a lot of information, Claire."

"Are you blushing? I didn't think you blushed."

"And I did not think you talked openly about sex in front of married men."

"Well," she said, blushing herself, "now we each know something new about each other. Will you walk me to the door?"

By the time he reached the door, he had allowed his curiosity to overcome his reserve. He wasn't going to see her for a long time, anyway, so he might as well ask now before she walked out. "So, you and Sawyer…are you, you know…"

"Doing it?" she asked.

"Yes. That was the elegant phrase I was searching for."

She laughed and slapped him gently on the shoulder. But then she looked a little embarrassed and answered, "No. I probably would if he made the move, but he hasn't."

"Sawyer? We _are_ talking about Sawyer?"

"Yeah. He hasn't tried anything serious yet." She shrugged. "Go figure _that_ one out."

"So…what? He is taking you out to candlelit restaurants and for romantic strolls along the shore?" Sayid's disbelief was not veiled.

"No," she said, "He doesn't have any money for candlelit restaurants. He just finally found a new job. He starts next week in L.A., actually, so you might see him around."

"Really?"

"Yes, but he's only in L.A. three months at a time. Then he's in Sydney for three months. It's a back and forth kind of job for some international firm." She sighed. "Long distance relationship."

Sayid turned the doorknob and opened the door. "Well, keep me informed, because this is really quite fascinating…in a morbid sort of way."

She smiled that sweet Claire smile, like a little girl. "You can mock my choices all you want, Sayid, but I never asked what you saw in Shannon. Can't you just wish me well?"

He took her hand tenderly into his own. "I do wish you well, Claire. I have long wished you well." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I am sorry. You are like a little sister to me, and so I cannot think that any man is good enough for you." He did not add, _though many would be better_. "Good luck with all of your firings tomorrow," he said, "And have a safe trip home."

She gave his hand a little squeeze, and then she was out the door. Sayid waited for her to drive off before closing and locking the door. He hurried up the stairs and found Nadia brushing her hair at her vanity.

Sayid went into the master bathroom to brush his teeth. From there, he called to Nadia, "Come here a moment. I want to discuss something important with you."

When she entered curiously he pointed to the tube of toothpaste in his hand. "Now," he said, half-smiling, "an educated, intelligent woman such as yourself ought to understand that it is much more efficient to squeeze from the bottom. Why do you still insist on squeezing from the top?"

She let out a sigh of exasperation. "That is how I do it," she said and left.

"Senseless!" he called after her. "Pure laziness!"

From where she now sat on the bed, she yelled, "I like the top!"

"Very well," Sayid replied. "I will be certain to keep your preference in mind when I come to bed."

That was when the pillow came flying through the doorway and hit him with a thud. He rinsed off his toothbrush and carried the pillow back to the bed.

Later, after they had made love, she began to trace the outline of the muscles on his chest. His flesh was still hot and his body was still experiencing a slight shuddering. "Did you like that, Sayid?" she asked.

"Very much."

"Good," she said, and then she raised her head, her hair tickling his skin. She looked him directly in the eyes. "If you ever want anything quite like that in the future, then never again mention the proper way to squeeze toothpaste."


	17. Chapter 17: Naming

**Chapter Seventeen: Naming**

Sayid thought Nadia must be asleep, so he slithered out of his shirt and pants and slipped into bed as quietly as possible. He had been working late all week, but his supervisor had promised him some time off soon. He was looking forward to a few days alone with his family.

Nadia immediately turned and rested her head on his chest, snuggling into him. "Are you awake?" he asked.

"Halfway," she said.

They talked to each other intermittently in their native tongue. There were long pauses between their words; they were like two kids at a slumber party, drifting in and out of sleep, tired but not quite ready to surrender.

Sayid was just about out when he heard, "Do you want to come?"

"Come?"

"For the twenty week ultrasound. Thursday."

"Thursday? Yes. I'm sure Hank will give me the day off." He stroked her hair lazily. "Is that when we get to find out if it's a boy or a girl?" He was awake now. "Nadia?"

He had just about assumed she had fallen asleep when she murmured, "I want to be surprised. We will have to wait until it's born."

"_We?_ They could tell just me. I promise not to tell you. It would still be a surprise for you."

He felt rather than heard her as she chuckled lightly against his chest. "You will not be able to keep it from me."

"Of course I will. I can keep a secret."

"But," she said, lifting her head slowly to kiss his shoulder, "I will be able to see the truth in your eyes."

"I am a master at controlling my expression," he said.

Her laugh was more audible this time. She kissed him again, this time quickly on the lips. "Not with me, you're not. You know how well I can read you."

He sighed. It was the truth. Somehow Nadia had always known the deepest longings of his soul, even when she had been his prisoner. He did not know what gave such power to her vision. Was it her love for him? Or was it the love he had for her that made him so transparent? It did not matter. He was grateful to stand unmasked before the one he loved, to have a peaceful place to rest where games were not demanded, where disguise was unnecessary.

He pulled her close. "Then I wait," he said.

She smiled approvingly and rested her head again upon his chest. Her delicate fingers began to trail up and down his rib cage. "Have you thought about what name you would like if we have a girl?"

He had, as a matter of fact. He had thought that he would like to name his daughter after Shannon, as homage to the memory of one who had helped him to endure a difficult time, who had proved to him that he was still capable of love.

But Nadia most likely wanted an Arabic name and one with religious meaning. At any rate, he doubted she would want her only daughter to bear the name of her husband's dead girlfriend. It did not seem right to him to ask it of her.

"I have not thought much about it," he said. "What would you like to name the child, if it's a boy?"

A long time passed before she answered. He was not sure if she were thinking, or if she had simply fallen asleep. When she finally spoke, she sounded uneasy. "I named Sigh after you. If we are blessed with a son, I…I would like to name him after Bashar. Would that bother you?"

"It would be fitting to honor your first husband in that way," he said. "He so honored me. Of course I would approve." He thought that now would probably be the best time to mention the name of Shannon, if he was ever going to mention it. But he remained silent.

"Thank you, Sayid," she whispered against his flesh. "I was thinking…if it's a girl…" She yawned. "I was thinking perhaps we could call her Adara, after my sister."

"Adara is a beautiful name."

"And for a middle name," she said, "we need not use Jazeem, as I did with Sigh. We could use Shannon. That is, if you wished." She felt his body twinge and asked, "Did I say the wrong thing?"

"No, no. You said the right thing." He drew her completely atop himself and kissed her deeply, tenderly. His lips broke from her mouth, and he kissed her cheek and whispered, "Adara Shannon. I like it very much." His hand trailed down her nightgown to its hem, which he began to draw up slowly.

"They sound lovely together," she said with another yawn. She covered his hands with hers and prevented him from pulling her nightgown up any farther. "I'm sorry, Sayid," she said, shifting off of him and laying her head again on his chest. "I'm very tired."

"I understand," he said. "I love you."

"I love you…" she murmured, and then he heard no more from her lips, but he felt her breathing even.

He rolled her gently on her side and pulled the blankets up to her shoulders, tucking them in tight around her. Then he slipped out of the bed and went to the bathroom. He removed his shorts and turned on the shower, opening only the cold tap before stepping inside. It wasn't cold enough.


	18. Chapter 18: Office Drudgery

**Chapter Eighteen: Office Drudgery**

Sayid awoke to the feeling of Nadia's fingers on his spine, a light tickling. Sleepily he reached behind himself and swatted her hand away. With one eye open, he saw the glaring red letters of the alarm clock: 6 a.m. "What are you doing?" he asked with annoyance. "We have an hour before the alarm goes off."

She huddled warmly against his back. He felt her lips tease his ears and then his neck; he felt her breath as she said, "I'm sorry for falling asleep last night. I'd like to make it up to you. But if you're too tired…" She shrugged and began to draw away from him.

"Wait," he said, turning and pulling her on top of himself. "I think you could manage to awaken me."

She pressed suggestively against him. He murmured his pleasure and closed his eyes for just a moment…just a moment…but the next thing he heard was the furious moan of the alarm. He rolled over, opened his eyes, and stared at the angry numbers: 7 a.m. He arose groggily and walked toward the sound of the running shower. Once in the bathroom, he turned on the sink and splashed cold water on his face.

He soon opened the shower curtain slightly and slipped in behind Nadia. She did not sense his presence at first; her eyes were closed and she was intent on feeling the warmth of the water as it splashed across her face. When she opened her eyes, his nearness startled her, and she jumped a little, slipping on the porcelain floor of the shower. He caught her and held her close, and then he kissed her.

"Can you make it up to me now?" he asked.

"No," she said. "You're the one who fell asleep this time. You are the one who must do penance."

"If I must." His hand trailed up her stomach and toward her chest slowly.

"But, Sayid, you will be late for work."

"I don't care."

She grabbed his hand and moved it to his side. "Then let's dry off and get in bed," she said urgently. "I hate shower sex. Someone is always left half in the cold."

He reached out for the faucet and turned it off abruptly. They climbed out of the shower and quickly toweled off before crawling under the warm, inviting blankets of the bed. They made love playfully at first, teasing one another, smiling, and sometimes even laughing, but soon their amusement turned to passion. When they lay together, spent and intertwined, they began to drift off to sleep.

A loud knocking on the door awoke them. "Mom! Dad!" Sigh called, "It's after 9:00. I'm already late for school."

-------

When Sayid arrived over an hour late for work, his supervisor was, gratefully, nowhere in sight. But when he walked into his tiny office, Hank was there swiveling back and forth in his chair. "You're late," he said.

"Sorry," Sayid replied. "I had a thing…I had to do…for my wife."

Hank got out of Sayid's chair and motioned for him to sit down. Sayid put his coffee and a bagel on the desk and sat in the chair, waiting to see if he would be rebuked for his tardiness. Hank pointed to a stack of papers on his desk. "The big boss wants you to fill these out by Friday."

"What for?"

Hank shrugged. "Useless reports. But he thought now, when we're up against a big deadline, would be the best time to demand them. Sorry."

"But I need Thursday off. My wife is getting her ultrasound."

Hank looked down at the reports, and then he scrapped them off of Sayid's desk. "I'll have my secretary do them," he said. "And what she doesn't get done I'll do myself. You can have the day off."

"Thank you," Sayid replied as Hank began to walk out of his office.

His supervisor paused at the door, turned, and leaned against the door frame. "I know you hate this office work, Sayid. I'll try to get you back to hands-on tinkering as soon as possible."

"I would appreciate it."

"Would you and your wife and son like to join me and Nora for Christmas dinner?"

Sayid had just picked up a pencil and had begun working on some sketches. He looked up. "We do not celebrate Christmas."

"I know. But you do eat, right?" He glanced at the bagel and coffee.

"Yes, we do…"

"Good, because my wife makes an excellent ham." Hank began to walk out the door.

"Ummm…"

His supervisor stuck his head back in, and he was wearing a huge smile. "Just kidding, Sayid. No ham. Think about it. Let me know in a couple of weeks."

Sayid nodded and went back to work, but Hank still hadn't left. "I guess we have to serve dinner after sunset, huh?"

"Sunset? Why?"

"I thought you had to fast all month, from dawn to sunset," he said from the door.

"In December? No. Why?"

"Isn't it Ramadan?"

"That was in October this year."

"Then how come," Hank asked, "they're always talking about Christmas—Kwanza—Chanukah—Ramadan?"

Sayid shrugged. "Ignorance I guess."

"Or," said Hank, "maybe it's so Muslims won't feel oppressed at Christmas time."

Sayid really wanted to get back to work, but he did find himself smiling.

"Yes, yes," he said. "That tinseled pine tree in the lobby is quite oppressing me."

Sayid wondered what his supervisor did all day. Did he just stand in doorways and talk to people, or did he actually work from time to time? He supposed not many supervisors worked…most were never in the office but were always away on mystery meetings and luncheons, never answering their cell phones. At least Hank was around when people had a question, and at least he would answer immediately with a simple yes or no. Most people had to wait around hours, sometimes days, to get an answer out of a supervisor before they could proceed with their work.

Hank laughed heartily, gave his employee a mock salute, and said, "Have a good day, sir. I promise you I will not harass you for the rest of it."

Sayid nodded, but he did not believe his supervisor's idle vow.


	19. Chapter 19: An Awkward Encounter

**Chapter Nineteen: An Awkward Encounter**

Two weeks later, Sayid had to tell Hank that he would not be joining him for Christmas dinner. Sawyer was going to be in L.A. from December through February, and Claire and Aaron were joining him for the week of Christmas. The couple had invited Sayid and Nadia to dinner.

"Sawyer's making Christmas dinner?" Sayid asked into the phone.

"No, of course not," said Claire. "I am. In that tiny apartment kitchen of his. Perhaps you had better eat before you come."

When Sayid called Hank, his supervisor said, "I understand. You got a better offer. But hey, invite your friends along too. The more the merrier. Nora loves to cook, and she's only got me to cook for."

Sayid said he did not think his friends would be particularly comfortable dining with strangers, but he promised to ask them. To his surprise, Claire leapt at the chance. She wasn't exactly a socialite, so he could only assume she was really terrified of having to cook. Hank's invitation let her off a rather painful hook.

When Christmas rolled around the following week, Sayid secured their next-door neighbor to babysit both Sigh and Aaron. He thought it would be better than dragging them along to an adult dinner party. When Claire and Sawyer arrived at their house, Aaron toddled right on in like he owned the place. Sigh looked at the boy with disappointment. Apparently he had expected a more able playmate for the evening.

Sayid was impressed to see that Sawyer was well-dressed, but he supposed an ex-confidence man must know how to look stylish, even if he usually chose not to. Yet Sawyer actually looked almost elegant; Sayid had expected the cowboy to appear slick even when well attired. That was when he realized what had caused the essential difference: Sawyer had gotten a haircut. The Southerner looked much more the gentleman with those well-cropped dirty blonde locks, although his self-assured smile still gave the old Sawyer away. Nevertheless, the man looked respectable, and Sayid did not fail to notice Nadia's approving glance.

As Sayid drove them all to Hank's house, he glimpsed Claire and Sawyer in the rearview mirror. They were casually holding hands and Sawyer was staring out the window, not really trying to be anybody.

When the four of them walked into the house together, Hank's wife Nora greeted them warmly and sat them in the living room. They made small talk for a time, until Hank arrived in the room. Sayid's supervisor immediately approached Nadia and told her what a pleasure it was to finally meet her.

"Introduce me to your friends," he said to Sayid, turning first to Claire. But then his eyes abruptly fell upon Sawyer, and his face contorted.

Sayid saw Sawyer's own face lose color, and he saw that cowboy-snarl cross his face as he looked away from Hank. But there was more than contempt on Sawyer's features; there was a strong hint of shame also.

"Get the hell out of my house," said Hank deliberately.

Nadia looked to Sayid, and Nora looked at Hank, but Sawyer only rose and said, "Come on, Claire," as he walked quickly to the door.

Claire glanced frantically at Sayid but trailed Sawyer out the door. Sayid and Nadia both sat speechless and frozen.

"Hank," said Nora in a tight, angry, tone. "Hank, what the hell was that?"

"Sayid," Hank said, leveling his gaze at his employee, "how do you happen to know the man who seduced my first wife and conned her out of her mother's inheritance?"

Sayid had never been so grateful for Nadia's touch as he was now, not since that day in solitary, when her hand had stolen over his hands. He squeezed back, but then he let go and said to Hank, "Let us speak privately." The two men went into a study together, and Sayid could only imagine what Nadia was saying to Nora.

When they exited the study some ten minutes later, Sayid was forcibly calm; but to Nadia he looked troubled. Nadia watched her husband reach for Nora's hand and listened as he thanked her for inviting them. He said he regretted that they would have to leave, and he wished her a Merry Christmas. He said nothing more to Hank. He only took Nadia's hand and led her to the door.

When they walked out, Claire was a block and a half away from the car, and Sawyer was fast on her heels, cursing and muttering, "Come on, Claire, would you just come back to the car?"

Nadia leaned against Sayid. "Are you going to have trouble with Hank from here on out?"

Sayid shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Things are…fine between us. It just would have been extremely awkward to stay, for all of us. And we have to drive these two back."

"I don't want anything to do with this," she said, watching the bickering couple. "You handle it. I'll be waiting in the car."

He nodded and then made his way after the pair. He was a few steps behind them when he saw Sawyer grab Claire's arm and pull her back towards him.

"Hey!" Sayid yelled, "Hey, Sawyer, watch it!"

Sawyer dropped her arm and scowled. "Well good thing you brought your boyfriend to defend you," he said to Claire. Then he turned on Sayid. "Thanks, Saladin, for putting me in that situation."

Sayid spit back, "I cannot be blamed for not knowing that you slept with his wife and stole her money."

Upon hearing this news, Claire glared at Sawyer. Sawyer rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Not _that_ wife, not the one with him now," he said, as though that should make a significant difference to her. "And you," he said, turning back to Sayid. "You've got some nerve judging me. Your past wasn't exactly morally pure either."

Sayid held up his hands. "I am not judging you. I am only saying, do not blame me for this awkward mess."

Sawyer's tongue flicked out across his lips and then he bit it and drew it back inside. He turned to Claire and began to talk to her as though Sayid were not right behind him. When he reached out this time, it was not to grab her, but to take her hand gently. "You know what I was, Claire. I told you all about that. We all got a second chance on that island, but none of us left it without the scars to remind us. When you left, you were still a single mother. And when I left, there were still people back home I'd wronged. Ain't nothing gonna change that."

Claire nodded. Sayid stepped back, turned, and headed for the car. He opened the driver's door and climbed in next to his wife. She put a hand on his knee, and he covered it with his own. "Are they coming?" she asked.

"Yes, soon I think. They're talking now."

He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Sawyer smirking and Claire smiling as they approached hand in hand. Sawyer actually opened the door for her. Why these routine acts of gentlemanly behavior should continue to surprise Sayid, he did not know. How else did he think the man had once seduced women? And yet now these small actions were disembodied from any goal other than kindness, and that was what seemed so out of character to Sayid.

Sawyer leaned forward and grabbed the head rest. "People change," he said to Sayid.

Sayid only nodded and started the ignition.


	20. Chapter 20: Argument

**Chapter Twenty: Argument**

As the car pulled away, Sawyer slapped his palms down on his legs, opened wide that toothy grin of his, and exclaimed, "What a very Merry Christmas! Peace on earth and good will towards men."

When no one responded he leaned forward towards Nadia, and now without a hint of sarcasm, he said, "Mrs. Jarrah, I apologize for being responsible for putting you in what must have been an extremely uncomfortable position." And then he sat back.

"Call me Nadia, please," she said. "We all have things in our pasts we are ashamed of. Let us enjoy the present…such as it is."

"So what do we do now?" asked Claire. "That is, now that Sawyer has lost us our free dinner."

"Ain't you seen _A Christmas Story_?" Sawyer asked. "Don't you know there's always a Chinese restaurant open on Christmas Day?"

"Chinese?" asked Claire from behind them.

Sayid glanced at Nadia, unsure if she wanted to persist with the evening after everything that had happened. But she was nodding.

"Chinese," replied Sayid.

They had to drive for over an hour before they found an open restaurant, and by then they were famished. They were one of only three groups of customers, but the place was at least festively arrayed, and they ate heartily.

Sawyer did his best, during the meal, to ingratiate himself with Nadia. Nadia did not appear to be taken in by his charm, but she did seem to find his efforts amusing.

Sawyer insisted on paying for everyone, as penance for ruining Christmas dinner, and no one bothered to protest. "I'll get the coats," volunteered Sayid, heading over to the rack.

Claire followed him. "So what do you think?" she asked.

"Of what?"

"Of me and Sawyer."

He handed Claire her coat and then began to shrug into his own. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say what you believe."

"What? That he is not good enough for you?" He picked up Sawyer's coat and handed it to Claire.

"He's changed a lot, Sayid. We all have. You have too. But not in your disdain for him."

Sayid picked up Nadia's coat and draped it over his arm. "I do not disdain him. He has, I suppose, a handful of admirable qualities about him. But do not expect me to be fond of him."

"I'm not asking you to be fond of him. But he treats me well."

"Does he?" asked Sayid, grabbing Claire's scarf down from the shelf and handing it to her. "Is that how he was treating you when he grabbed your arm?"

"He was just trying to stop me to talk to me. You interpreted it incorrectly." When Sayid didn't reply, she asked, "Do you really think he treats me badly?"

"Well, at least he calls you by your real name. I noticed that. He never uses a nickname for you at all anymore, does he?"

"No."

"By Sawyer's standards, that is fairly impressive. I, however, am still Muhammad more than half the time." He stopped speaking as Nadia and Sawyer approached them. They had been laughing about something together, and Sayid thought Nadia's smile looked particularly beautiful. Perhaps he needed its warmth more than usual tonight.

He held out her coat for her and helped her into it. Claire handed Sawyer his. Nadia and Sawyer, once bundled up, walked ahead together towards the door to finish their conversation. Sayid and Claire lingered a few steps behind.

When Sawyer and Nadia reached the door, Sawyer began to open it for her, but then he noticed the mistletoe hanging above, and he pointed to it with a wry smile. "Mistletoe, my Arabian princess," he said.

Nadia looked up and laughed lightly. But when Sawyer leaned in to kiss her, Sayid prevented him by pushing his way between them. He grabbed Sawyer by the collar of his coat with one hand, pushed the door open with the other, and shoved him out.

Claire laughed as if to pretend that she thought Sayid was merely joking, but her voice tittered nervously. She shot Sayid the closest thing to a glare she had ever given him, and then she followed Sawyer out and let the door slam shut.

Sayid reached to push it open again, but Nadia grabbed his hand and held it still against the glass. "That was a childish thing to do," she said deliberately in Arabic, so that the other customers would not understand them. "You're acting like a jealous school boy."

"And you are acting like a fickle school girl, the way you have been flirting with him."

"Flirting? I was being friendly. They're _your_ friends. Would you like me to be indifferent?"

"Not indifferent," he said, wresting his hand out from under hers. Leaning close to her ear, he hissed, "But I had to wait eight years to kiss you, Nadia, and I'll be damned if that man is going to do it in less than eight hours." He impatiently pushed open the door and ushered her out.


	21. Chapter 21: Conversation

**Chapter Twenty-one: Conversation**

Claire did her best to make light conversation on the way back to Sayid and Nadia's where Sawyer had left his car and Claire her son. But it was only she and Nadia who held up the dialogue. Sayid and Sawyer both sat in silence.

When they got inside the house and Nadia relieved the babysitter, she told Claire that, since Aaron was sound asleep, she was welcome to leave him overnight and pick him up in the morning. "Or, if you prefer to stay here, we also have a guest bedroom."

Claire glanced at Sawyer and Sawyer shrugged. "Your decision," he said.

Claire said she would like to stay the night, and Nadia suggested Sawyer stay an hour or so before driving back to his apartment. But then she asked Claire to join her upstairs while they peeked in on the kids, leaving Sawyer and Sayid uncomfortably alone together. Sayid suspected that she and Claire would not be down again anytime soon.

"A holly, jolly, Merry Christmas," muttered Sawyer, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around the house. When Sayid didn't reply, Sawyer walked uninvited into the living room, took off his coat, threw it on the back of a chair, and sat down on the couch. He put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back with an exaggerated sigh.

Sayid glanced up the staircase and wondered how difficult it was going to be to reconcile with Nadia once Sawyer was gone and Claire was asleep. They didn't fight often, and when they did, it was usually because of some minor infraction of his, about which she really didn't much care. Those squabbles had always ended quickly, and Nadia never held grudges. But tonight he had sensed a real anger coursing beneath her words.

He knew she thought he had behaved possessively, and although she was a woman who gave herself freely and completely, she was most certainly not a woman who allowed herself to be owned. For the way his actions must have appeared to her, he was regretful; but he was still displeased with the fact that she had rather looked like she was going to accept Sawyer's kiss.

"Do you want a beer?" he said when he finally came into the living room a few minutes after Sawyer.

"I thought you desert dwellers didn't drink."

Sayid walked on through the living room and threw his coat across a dining room chair. "We always keep alcohol on hand for the delight of our infidel guests," he said.

He came back with a bottle and Sawyer took it, opening the top with his bare hands. He cut himself in the process and wiped the little trickle of blood on his pants. He took one sip and grimaced. "Damn, Muhammad, this is skunked."

"It is what?"

"Skunked."

Sayid shook his head.

"It's gone bad. What, did you have it in and out of the fridge or something?"

Sayid shrugged. "Perhaps. It has been there for ages."

"Well, what are you drinking?"

"Cherry Kool-Aid."

Sawyer laughed. "No, really."

"Really," Sayid replied and brought the red liquid to his lips.

"I'd like me some of that."

Without a response, Sayid got up and returned with a cup of cherry Kool-Aid.

"You aren't going to pull a Jim Jones on me, are you?" Sawyer quipped. The reference was clearly lost on Sayid. So Sawyer just took the cup and inhaled deeply. "Ah…" he said, "sweet memories."

"Kool-Aid makes you think of your childhood?" Sayid asked, now putting his feet up on the coffee table also, even though he knew full well Nadia hated it.

"If it did, I wouldn't be calling the memories sweet," Sawyer said. "How 'bout you? Are your childhood memories sweet?"

"They are, actually," replied Sayid. "I was a boy when I first met Nadia."

"About your wife, Sayid, and the mistletoe…"

Sayid turned his searing eyes on Sawyer.

"Look, I was just kidding around, trying to put her at ease, make her like me so maybe she could put in a good word for me and you wouldn't despise me quite so openly."

"I do not despise you."

"Really? How often have you told Claire I'm not good enough for her?"

Sayid did not respond.

"She cares about your opinion, you know. It's not like it doesn't affect me." He smiled. "But at least she was on my side when you shoved me out that door. I mean, I was just going to give Nadia a little peck. Don't you think you overreacted?"

"No," he replied, taking another drought of Kool-Aid.

"Well, you're wife seems to think you did," said Sawyer with a defensive smirk. "Come on, what's a kiss? A kiss doesn't mean a damn thing."

"You only say that," said Sayid, draining the rest of his Kool-Aid, "because you have never kissed my wife." He swiveled the empty cup in his hand. "And you never will."

Sawyer grinned and raised both is hands, one still holding the cup, in a you-got-me posture. "I wasn't planning on trying it, Muhammad. I've got no designs on your harem. Well, except for Claire of course. You seem to act like she's yours, too."

"Excuse me?" Sayid's tone was unmistakably hard.

"Look, I'm just saying, if anyone's got cause to be pissed about whose acting lovey with who, then it's your wife, because you've been chummy with Claire since before we left the island."

"Nadia and I have discussed this. She is not bothered by my friendship."

Sawyer shrugged. "Look, Sayid, I'm not making trying to make any special effort to irritate you."

"No. For you annoyance is essentially effortless."

Sawyer chuckled, sighed, and shook his head—every deflective move rolled into one. Then came the sarcasm. "Can't we all just get along?" The smile faded and Sawyer said seriously, "Look, for Claire's sake, let's be at peace, okay? I know we ain't gonna be buddies, but would you at least believe I'm not trying to seduce your wife?"

Sayid smiled despite himself. "I never said I thought you were trying to seduce my wife."

"Then what are you so riled up about?"

"You asked of her a liberty that…" Sayid sighed. How did he explain this? "That is to say, in her tradition--"

"Good, God, Ali, do you keep her locked up and force her to wear that damn head scarf so she won't take _liberties_ with men like me?"

Sayid did not realize he had been squeezing the paper cup that had once held his Kool-Aid until collapsed violently in his hand. "She wears what she chooses to wear," he said cooly. "It is her desire to honor that tradition. It is neither my request nor my expectation, let alone my demand." He tossed the crumpled cup on the end table, took his feet down, and sat up. "I am sure this is difficult for you to understand, Sawyer, as you knew me as a secular man, and you have been sleeping with Claire all week long, but--"

"I have? I wish somebody woulda told me. I might have enjoyed it more."

"She is staying at your apartment."

"Yeah. In her own room. With Aaron." Sawyer laughed derisively. "How do you know that I'm not still waiting for the perfect moment?"

"I assumed--"

"Exactly, Muhammed, you _assumed_. But even assuming we _are _doing it, which we very well may be when her kid isn't quite so close by, what the hell does that have to do with this conversation?"

"I realize a kiss likely means nothing to you, Sawyer, but it means a great deal to me where Nadia is concerned." He shook his head. "Perhaps…perhaps I overreacted." He did not entirely mean his own admission, but it was easier to make it and end the subject. "Peace," he said, extending his hand to Sawyer.

When the women descended the stairs, they saw the two men shaking hands, and both smiled.

"Claire's going to bid her farewell to Sawyer," Nadia said, joining them, "and then she is going to bed."

"I'm exhausted," Claire agreed. "Have a good night, Nadia," she said, and then nodding at Sayid, "Good night."

When all had exchanged their farewells, and Nadia had extended a breakfast invitation to Sawyer for the following morning, Nadia turned and made her way up the stairs to give the couple some time alone together before Sawyer left. Sayid followed, glad to be free of Sawyer but reluctant to tangle with his wife.


	22. Chapter 22: A Shock

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Nadia didn't say anything to him as she undressed for bed. She climbed just as wordlessly under the covers, but she left the bedside lamp on. He followed her example, silently undressing down to his boxers, and then he slipped into bed beside her. He reached out and took her hand, and she let him. Maybe this wasn't going to be so difficult after all, he thought. Maybe she had already forgiven him.

But when he attempted to kiss her, he learned his hopes had been premature. She stopped his lips with the fingers of her other hand. "Are you sure you want to kiss a wanton woman, Sayid, who flirts so recklessly with your friends?"

"Nadia," he pleaded.

When her expression offered him no relief, he simply let go of her hand. Now he was growing a little perturbed himself. "Well, would you have kissed him?"

"You mean if you had not grabbed him roughly by the collar and shoved him out the door? Perhaps."

"And you do not think I should be even a little bit angry about that?"

Nadia crossed her arms sullenly about her chest.

"Nadia, I was on fire for you every night of our courtship, and you never let me go any farther than a kiss. And now you want me to learn to take that lightly?"

Nadia colored. "It would not have been that kind of a kiss. That was completely different, and you know it."

"What would have been the significant difference? Explain it to me."

"All right," she said. "I would have kissed Sawyer like this…" She pecked him very quickly and very lightly on the lips. He barely felt the pressure, and it was certainly a long way from exciting. If anything, it felt like his little sister's kiss had, when he had been a boy.

"And when I kissed you, when we were courting, it was more like this…" She leaned in and kissed him deeply, suggestively.

He had enjoyed the privilege of making love to her for so long that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be severely aroused by nothing more than her kiss. He had for over a year been able to expect that something more would follow; but he had no such expectations tonight.

When she finally pulled away from him, he replied, "Oh. Yes. I see the difference."

"Then you forgive me?" she asked.

"There is nothing to forgive. Forgive me, Nadia."

She kissed him again, this time allowing his tongue to penetrate her mouth. To his surprise and pleasure, she drew him down on top of herself.

"The baby," he murmured, as he shifted his weight off of her. "I don't want to--"

"Then choose another position." But almost as soon as she had invited him, she said, "Wait, I have a Christmas present for you," and she sat up.

He groaned at having the object of his desire so abruptly ripped from him. "We do not give one another Christmas presents," he said with frustration.

"I know," she replied. "But this year, since I knew we would be celebrating it with your friends, I thought I would buy something to give you later, privately. Something nice for me to wear…for you."

"To wear?" he asked in disbelief, thinking she could only mean some enticing piece of lingerie. Yet Nadia never wore lingerie. It was not that she was not creative in bed. She regularly took great care to excite and please him. But she simply did not have much interest in Western styles of seduction.

Sayid, on the other hand, had occasionally wondered what Nadia would like in such apparel. He had told her so once, and she had laughed as though she thought he had been joking. He had not broached the subject again.

Now, a new thought suddenly occurred to him. _They make maternity lingerie?_ He did not dare ask the question.

"Do you want to see your Christmas present or not?"

"Very much so." He smiled when she slid off the bed, and he watched her disappear behind the bathroom door. He waited excitedly for awhile, but when it seemed too long a time had passed (he did not know if it had been long, or if it was merely his anticipation that made it seem so), he arose and approached the door. "Nadia?" he asked.

"Sayid," she answered, and the fear and sorrow that intermingled in her voice made him shiver. He threw open the door and saw her standing, still dressed in her usual night clothes, gripping her sides. "Sayid," she said. "I am bleeding."


	23. Chapter 23: A Small Warrior

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Nadia clawed her way out of sleep. She sensed Sayid sitting in the hospital chair next to her, but she still felt too weak to speak. She listened to the muttering of his low voice as he prayed, and then she heard him start reading his Arabic Old Testament. Muslims did not regard it as an infallible text like the Koran, but she knew he read it anyway.

"Now therefore," he was reciting, "the sword will never depart from your house, because you have despised me…And Nathan said to David, Allah has put away your sin; you will not die. However, because your deeds have led the enemies of Allah to blaspheme, the child that is born to you will surely die."

When Nadia heard these words she began to weep silently, and she found the energy to speak. "Sayid, Sayid, is the baby dead? Is our baby dead?"

He slammed the book shut, set it aside, and grasped her hand. He smoothed the hair back from her brow with his other free hand. "No, Nadia, no. They found the heart beat. The baby is alive. They do not yet know what is wrong, but they are…the…the baby is alive."

"Then why do you read such awful things?" she asked.

"I did not know you were awake." The baby was indeed alive, but Sayid was, at present, not at all hopeful it would remain so. He who had not much worried about Nadia's pregnancy until now suddenly felt a great weight of fear press down on him, and with it came a queasy certainty that Allah was about to repay him for his past sins in the worst way possible.

He had been content too long; he had buried the past far behind his marriage; he had begun to believe he deserved his happiness. And now Allah was going to wake him up from this pleasant dream he had been living and parade before him the ugly sins he thought he had escaped. And Nadia would hate him for the curse that he had brought upon their house.

But he would not say such things to Nadia. He would put on a strong face for her, of course. He regretted that she had heard him read the passage.

"I'm thirsty," she muttered, and he brought a cup of water to her lips. "Where is Sigh?"

"Claire and Sawyer are watching him. He will be fine. You will be fine. The baby will be fine."

"You don't believe that," she said, and turned her tired eyes upon his face. "You think our child will die as punishment for your sins."

Sayid shuddered. How could she know that? How could she know his mind so intimately?

"The passage," she muttered, "you think you are like David."

What should he say? "Nadia, my love—"

"When will you let go?" she asked him almost angrily. "When will you let go of this self-loathing? Put your past behind you. Do not even remember it."

"How can I forget it?"

"By living for _today_. Do not disregard Allah's gifts. Do not doubt His generosity. I know this baby will be well. I _know_."

Sayid kissed her hand, her brow, her lips. He murmured her name repeatedly. "I want to believe you," he said, "I want to believe you."

"Mr. Jarrah," called a voice from the doorway, and a doctor stepped in. "I—" He saw that the patient was awake and began addressing himself to her. "Mrs. Jarrah, I am going to need your consent to perform an emergency C-section."

"But," said Nadia, "but the baby is only at twenty-three weeks old. I cannot possibly—"

The doctor then began to talk about Nadia's condition. To Sayid, the words seem to swim about in a sea of technical jargon, and they swept over him like a deafening wave. The only thing he really heard was, "Mrs. Jarrah, you need to understand that if we do not perform this C-section tonight, there is a very good chance you could die."

Nadia squeezed Sayid's hand and looked at him questioningly. "Nadia," he said, "you have to let them do it."

"I know," she said, but she was crying again. Silently, resolutely, and with control…but she was crying. Sayid felt the foreign dampness on his cheeks and realized with an odd, surprised kind of numbness that he was crying too.

While they wheeled her to the operating room, Sayid walked beside her. "Some premature babies have survived as young as twenty-two weeks," the doctor was saying. "It's rare, but it happens in about two percent of cases. I don't want to give you false hope, but this isn't necessarily an end either. At twenty-three weeks, the odds of survival are much higher, but still less than twenty percent. And if your baby does survive…" Here Sayid heard only "NICU," "days or weeks," and "possible permanent damage."

The lights in the hallway were too bright, he thought. The walls were too white. The halls reeked of too many antiseptic fumes. Nothing was right.

They went past the waiting room to cross to the other side of the hallway, and Sayid caught Sawyer out of the corner of his eye. The man rose from the chair where he'd been sitting, and Sayid thought he hadn't looked so haggard since the day he had returned from the raft. Had Claire sent him? When? Had he been in the waiting room all this time? Sayid caught his eye and half-nodded. It was the closest thing to gratitude he could express. Sawyer nodded back, let out a shaky breath, and watched them continue on.

Sayid rested his fingertips against the outer glass of the window looking in on the NICU. His daughter lay under a protective chamber where a machine was helping her to breathe until her lungs were strong enough to do the work on their own.

"Merry Christmas," said Sawyer from behind him. It was the third time he had said those words tonight, but it was the first time he had sounded sincere.

"It is not Christmas anymore," replied Sayid. "She was born at 11:59. It is almost two."

"Do uh…do uh…" Sawyer swallowed and forced the question out: "Do they think she's gonna live?"

Sayid had once said he wished for a little girl with her mother's eyes and her mother's courage. Well, Adara Shannon did not have her mother's eyes; she had Sayid's—deep and serious and yet distinctly tender. But she certainly had her mother's courage.

"She's a fighter," all the nurses had told him.

"She's a warrior, this one," the doctor had said.

"Yes," he answered Sawyer. "She is going to live."

"Claire told me to tell you that she'll stay at your house with Sigh for as long as you need. She quit that job, you know…firing people."

"I did not know."

"Yeah. She just decided tonight. Anyway, she'll stay as long as you need. She's moving to L.A."

"Good," Sayid answered distractedly, looking back at his daughter.

Later, when Sayid was back by Nadia's side, he told her that he felt sure Adara was going to make it. She smiled weakly, but every so tenderly, at him. After he had bent to kiss her, just as he began to draw away, she whispered against his lips, "I told you I had a Christmas present for you."


	24. Chapter 24: An Unusual Match

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Sayid tossed his keys on the end table and sank wearily into the couch. From the loveseat on the other side of the living room, Sawyer and Claire glanced at him.

This time, Sawyer did not mask his uneasiness with sarcasm. "If you want me to leave, Sayid—"

"Stay, Sawyer. Sigh is asleep?"

"Yes," answered Claire.

"And where is Aaron sleeping?"

Claire swallowed hard. In a very timid voice she answered, "In the baby's room."

Sayid turned his tired eyes on her. "That is fine, Claire. That is fine. Adara will be sleeping there this time next week."

Claire smiled tentatively. "She is doing well? And Nadia?"

"Nadia will be discharged in two days. She demanded I get out of that hospital chair and come home for Sigh. How has he been handling things?"

"Like a trooper. But a very little one," she said.

He nodded, and his eyes began to close.

"You should get to bed," she said softly.

"Hmmm…." he murmured. "Sawyer is sleeping on the couch, yes?"

"Sure, Dad, as you wish," came the slow southern drawl.

Sayid smiled faintly. He pushed himself up from the chair and began to stumble toward the stairs. "Well, as long as you kids are under my roof…" And then he made his way to the inviting softness of his bed.

Sometime in the night, he awoke and reached for Nadia. Groggily he remembered where she was, and what he had been given. He said a quick prayer of thanksgiving. He did not even pray for Adara to survive. He knew she would.

He heard a creak on the stairs. He heard the guest bedroom door open and shut, a woman whisper, "Shhh…", and then he closed his eyes again.

He slept late into the morning because no one had roused him. When he came down the stairs, he saw Sigh on the couch, watching _Beauty and the Beast_ and eating chocolate chip pancakes. "Be glad your mother is not home," he said from behind the boy.

"Dad!" Sigh cried, and put his plate down on the table. He embraced Sayid, who returned him equal affection.

"Your mother is well, and you can come see your little sister with me later this morning."

"But school…"

"You are already late for that. You can skip today."

"Yes!" came the exclamation, and then the boy grabbed his plate and returned to the kitchen to beg Claire for more chocolate chip pancakes.

When Sayid entered and sat at the table, Sawyer was reading the paper. "Business section?" asked Sayid. "I thought you'd only be interested in Sports."

"Don't you know, Ali, I'm a business man now. I'm about to make vice president."

Sayid laughed, and then he realized Sawyer was serious. "But you've only been at that job for a few months."

Sawyer smiled, the dimples deepening in his cheeks. "Yeah, but I have quite the talent for sealing the deal and for finding ways to make people trust me."

"I imagine you do," said Sayid. "I imagine you do. If only you had put it to better use sooner."

"If only all of us hadn't needed a plane wreck to discover our virtues. Coffee?"

Sayid nodded.

"Claire," called Sawyer. She shot him a perturbed look.

"Is that your way of getting coffee for your friends? I have to feed Aaron."

Sawyer got the coffee himself and brought it to Sayid. "Listen, uh…" he said. "Claire's decided she's going to move in with me."

Sayid stared at him blankly. "Are you expecting some kind of response?" he asked at last.

Sawyer shrugged. "It's just until the wedding."

"What wedding?" Sayid sipped his coffee.

"Ours."

"We are getting married?" Sayid asked. "I know Claire used the f word about us just now, but I thought even that was a little hasty."

Sawyer laughed. "Well, well, Ali, you do have a sense of humor after all. Are you surprised?"

"At her accepting you? No. She has been irrational ever since she started dating you. But at your asking her? Yes."

"Hey," said Sawyer, "it could work."

"It had better."

Sawyer bowed his head in mock submission. "Anyway, Claire wants you in the wedding. She wants you to be my best man, if you're willing. I haven't got any…you know…friends."

"Whatever makes Claire happy," said Sayid with a shrug. He took another sip of the soothing coffee. If he and Nadia could have a Christmas baby over fourteen weeks ahead of schedule, then perhaps anything could happen. Perhaps even Sawyer and Claire could have a happy marriage.


	25. Chapter 25: Odd Vows

**Chapter Twenty-five**

"Eight weeks?" asked Sayid incredulously. "Eight weeks? No one told me it would be eight weeks."

Nadia's low laugh only aroused him more. "I have had a C-section, Sayid. Besides which," she said, casting the blankets off from her, "Look! I have a paunch. It is hideous."

"Somehow this is not deterring me."

She pulled the blankets back around herself again, rolled onto her side, and said, "Good night."

He lay down beside her and snuggled close against her back, kissing her shoulder. "So, in three more weeks, then, do I get to see my _other_ Christmas present?"

"It will no longer fit me then, Sayid."

"Might I…might I buy something for you?"

She rolled over to face him and slid her arms around him. "Hmmm….I am not entirely sure whether or not I trust your taste. But…" she said, kissing him softly, "I suppose you know better than I what will excite you."

"I am not sure I do. You are rather gifted in that regard." He leaned in to kiss her, but Adara began to cry from the bassinet on the other side of the bedroom. "I will bring her to you," he said.

He lifted his tiny daughter gently, cradled her close to himself, and whispered for her to quiet. He brought her to Nadia in bed and watched as she suckled the infant. He felt a wave of tenderness overwhelm him that was unlike anything he had experienced in his life; he was almost embarrassed by its intensity. When Nadia was done, he took Adara, changed her diaper, rocked her, and laid her back in the bassinet. By the time he crawled back into bed, Nadia was fast asleep.

"Sayid, which one do you think is better?" Claire asked. She was holding up three magazine clippings of tuxedos.

Sayid put down the paper and picked up his toast. Sigh was amusing Aaron in the living room, and the toddler was laughing uproariously. The three-month-old Adara was slumbering in a sling attached to her mother, who had just been brought a cup of coffee by Sawyer. The four adults were enjoying Sunday morning breakfast together, which had become a weekly routine. "I have no incentive to endure these questions," answered Sayid. "I am not the one who is marrying you."

"For some reason," Sawyer drawled, "she trusts your tastes better than mine. Not sure why. Your island wardrobe wouldn't likely have been featured in _G.Q._"

"And yours would have?"

"No, but I sported it with greater style." He flashed his dimpled smile, which never failed to stir Claire, however inane the words that inspired it. Sawyer glanced at her and caught her eye, and he knew the effect he was having on her. The smile became a little less sardonic and a little more loving.

"So, then, which one do you prefer?" Claire asked him.

"I would look best in this one," he said, pointing to the first picture. "But it would make Sayid resemble a penguin on steroids." He chewed a bite of toast and seemed to consider the situation. "Which, come to think of it, would make me look _even_ better. Definitely that one."

Sayid now glanced with concern at the pictures. They all looked very much the same to him. Would he really look worse in one than the other?

Sawyer was now taunting him with his smile. Sayid sighed and reclaimed his paper. Nadia had gone to the living room to make sure Sigh was not overtaxing Aaron's energy. She set Adara on a blanket on the floor.

"Be careful," said Sayid. "We don't want Aaron rolling on top of her."

"At least," replied Sawyer, "Not for another eighteen years."

Now the paper was slowly folded. It was laid with precision on the table, and Sayid's hands smoothed it deliberately. He leaned back in his chair and regarded a smiling Sawyer coolly. His level gaze, however, was distracted to Claire, who had begun laughing out of the sides of her mouth, which she had tried to cinch shut against the growing sound.

"You find his remark amusing, do you?" Sayid asked her. "That is because you have a son." He turned to Sawyer. "From henceforth, I wish daughters upon you. Nothing but daughters."

Sawyer started laughing. "At last, a blessing from the wise Saladin, a blessing on our marriage!"

"He meant it as a curse," replied Claire.

"Darlin'," Sawyer drawled, scooting his chair next to Claire and draping and arm around her shoulders. "From Sayid, I'll take the closest thing I can get."

---

The wedding transpired smoothly enough, and, Sawyer's threats notwithstanding, Sayid looked rather handsome in his tuxedo. At least Nadia told him she thought so, and after the reception, when a visiting Rose and Bernard volunteered to watch all of the children, she led him—not unwillingly—up the stairs to their bedroom to show him she thought so.

When they rejoined their guests the following morning, Rose commented on how beautiful the ceremony had been. "I can't believe Sawyer wrote his own vows," said Bernard.

"Claire insisted he do so," said Nadia. "But he did a surprisingly good job."

"You think so?" asked Sayid.

"Yes. I mean, granted, some of it was a little…strange."

"Which part?" Sayid asked, sounding almost defensive.

Rose smiled, "That part about vowing to be a good father to Aaron as well as a good husband. Well, not _that_, exactly—that was good and I'm glad he said that, but why he chose that opportunity to say he was going to raise Aaron to respect women and behave properly toward them at all times…I don't know, it just seemed a little out of place."

Nadia nodded her agreement.

"Well I for one thought it was very fitting," said Sayid, "and very eloquently phrased."

Suddenly Nadia began laughing. Rose and Bernard glanced at her with confusion. "Sayid," she said, between gasps, "you _wrote_ his vows for him, didn't you?"

He folded his arms across his chest. He looked away from her laughing eyes. "He begged me to," he mumbled. "He is a changed man, I will give him that, but Claire was expecting a bit much when she asked him to do that."

Now Bernard and Rose were laughing too.

"He was desperate to please her, though," Sayid said. "Maybe he and Claire will do well after all." He smiled, and then he nodded. "Yes, I think maybe they will."

_Epilogue to follow…_


	26. Chapter 26: Epilogue

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Epilogue**

"Get down!" shouted the nineteen month old toddler from where she stood perched atop the center of the dinning room table. She had heard her mother's footsteps and had anticipated her command before Nadia could level it.

So Nadia just shot her an angry look and pointed to the ground. "Adara Shannon, now!"

Adara's little face curved into a sly, seemingly innocent smile as she walked to the edge of the table, sat on her butt, slid off onto the chair she had pulled out, and climbed down onto the floor.

"That is it," said Nadia. "No movie for you this afternoon."

"Moo-vee! Moo-vee!" howled the girl desperately. Despite Nadia's best efforts at parenting, it had been one of the first words the child had learned. Sigh had long ago graduated from _Beauty and the Beast _to a new obsession with _Monsters, Inc._, and Adara had developed a strange fondness for Mike, the green, one-eyed creature she called "My Mikey." Just like Sigh was "Mai-sigh."

Nadia stood her ground and shook her head firmly. "Absolutely no movie."

Adara cried, "Moo-vee! Moo-vee!" again, but then she stopped her whining abruptly. Her eyes—usually as serious as Sayid's—now twinkled mischievously as that defiant yet adorable smile crept across her face. She looked at her mother and cocked her head. She placed her left hand upon her left hip and her right hand upon her right hip. Nadia looked at the cocky display with disbelief. Adara again smiled insolently and called, "Daaaaaaaaady!" as she began strutting down the hall, past the kitchen, towards her father's study.

"Sayid!" He heard Nadia yell from where he sat at his desk, reading. "The answer is no!"

When Adara toddled in, Sayid put his book down. "Come here, my princess." She crawled into his lap and he cuddled her close.

"Moo-vee," she said.

"I believe your mother just told you no."

"Daaady, moo-vee."

"Well, Daddy says no too."

At this point, Nadia had peeked her head around the corner.

"Do you doubt my ability to withstand my daughter?" he asked her. Nadia's smile betrayed that she did.

"Well," said Sayid, "I think that little girls who taunt their mothers perhaps need an early nap."

"Nooooo," cried Adara. "Nooo…moo-vee!"

"What if I were to read you a book first? Your choice."

"My Mikee?"

Sayid rolled his eyes. "We are going upstairs, Adara."

It was not without struggle that Sayid managed to put Adara down for her nap, but he had endured and vanquished greater forces in his life. When at last he closed the door to the nursery, his wife was standing in the hallway awaiting him, a bemused expression on her face. "Is she asleep?"

"Or very soon will be. How long until Sigh returns from school?"

"We have one hour."

"Then," he said, capturing her hand and ushering her eagerly to the bedroom, "let us be certain to make the most of it."

**THE END**

**Note: If you liked this, try my other Sayid and Nadia fanfiction stories:**

**_Solitary (Retold):_** A retelling of "Solitary" from Nadia's point of view with expanded and missing scenes. How did Sayid and Nadia's relationship develop while he was her interrogator?

**_Escape_**: A sequel to "Solitary Retold"

**_Despair and Hope_**: After Shannon's death, Sayid struggles with his grief and is plagued by his past sins. He begins to heal with the help of Sun, Ana, Rose, and Jin. But when a propeller jet unexpectedly crashes on the island, his past returns to haunt him.

You can click on my name for a list of stories. Thanks for your comments!


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